Weird Tales volume 28 number 03

Robert Bt
Dorothy Quic
obert E. Howard

«!£■»«. ,t

A SECRET METHOD FOR
THE MASTERY OF LIFE

WHENCE came the knowledge that built the Pyramids
and the mighty Temples of the Pharaohs ? Civiliza-
tion began in the Nile Valley centuries ago. Where
did its first builders acquire their astounding wisdom that
started man on his upward climb? Beginning with naught
they overcame nature's forces and gave the world its first
sciences and arts. Did their knowledge come from a race now
submerged beneath the sea, or were they touched with Infinite
inspiration? From what concealed source came the wisdom
that produced such characters as Amenhotep IV, Leonardo da
Vinci, Isaac Newton, and a host of others ?
Today it is known that they discovered and learned to inter-
pret certain Secret Methods for the development of their inner
power of mind. They learned to command the inner forces
within their own beings, and to master life. This secret art of
Irving has been preserved and handed down throughout the
&ges. Today it is extended to those who dare to use its pro-
found principles to meet and solve the problems of life in
these complex times.

This Sealed Book— FREE

Has life brought you that personal satisfaction, the sense of achieve-
ment and happiness that you desire? If not, it is your duty to your-
self to learn about this rational method of applying natural laws foe
the mastery of life. To the thoughtful person it is obvious that every-
one cannot be entrusted with an intimate knowledge of the mysteries of
life, for everyone is not capable of properly using it. But if you are
one of those possessed of a true desire to forge ahead and wish to make
use of the subtle influences of life, the Rosicrucians (not a religious or-
ganization) will send you A Sealed Book of explanation without obli-
gation. This Sealed Book tells how you, in the privacy of your own
home, without interference with your personal affairs or manner of liv-
ing, may receive these secret teachings. Not weird or strange practices,
but a rational application of the basic laws of life. Use the coupon,
and obtain your complimentary copy.

The ROSICRUCIANS

AMENHOTEP IV

FOUNDER OF KYFT'S
MTSTEflY SCHOOIS

Vit this
coupon jot
FREE
c 0fy of book

SCRIBE: B. H. D.

The Rosienidans (amqjic J
San Jose, California

SAN JOSE

(AMORC)

CALIFORNIA

ADDRESS...
CITY

W.T.— 1

A MAGAZINE OF THE BIZARRE AND UNUSUAL

.REGISTERED IN U.S. PATENT OFFICE

Volume 28 CONTENTS FOR OCTOBER, 1936 Number 3

Covet Design « . J. Allen St. John

Ulustiating a seen* In "Isle of the Undead"

Isle of the Undead » . Lloyd Arthur Eshbach 259

An uncanny tale of the fate that befell a yachting party en the awful island of living dead men

The Lost Temples of Xantoos .......... Howell Calhoun 276

Vent

The Opener of the Way Robert Bloch 27*

A trentandont tale of dread doom in a forgotten tome beneath the desert sands of Egypt

Witch-Burning ........... Mary Elizabeth Counselman 288

Vent

The Lost Door Dorothy Quick 289

An alluring but deadly horror out of pott centuries menaced tie life of a young American

Doom of the House of Duryea Earl Peirce, Jr. 304

A powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thing that happened in a lone lodge in the
Maine woods

The Tree of Life . . C. L. Moore 315

A tale of the planet Mars and a terrible monstrosity that called 1st tictims to it from afar

Red Nails (end) Robert E. Howard 334

A three-part serial ssory of a weird roofed city and the strangest people ever spawned

R. E. H. ................... R. H. Barlow 35$

Verse, a tribute to the latt Robert E. Howard

The Doers of Death Arthur B. Waltermire 354

A strange and curious story about a banker whose only fear was that be might he buried dive

The Secret of Kralitz Henry Kuttner 361

A story of the shotting revelation thai earn* to the twenty-first Baron Kralitz

Weird Siory Reprint:
The Great Keinplatz Experiment ....... Arthur Conan Doyle 366

A weird-scientific story by a late British writer

The Eyrie 378

Out readers exchange opinions about this magazine

Published monthly by the Popular Fiction Publishing Company. 24J7 East Washington Street, Indianapolis, Ind. Entered
a* tecond-du* nutter March tO, 192), it the post office at Indianapolis. Ind., under the act of March }, 1879. Single copies,
2* cents. SnOMvipiio* taiett One rear in the United State) and possessions, Cuba. Mesico, South America, Spain, $2.10;
Canada. J2.7»; elsewhere. #).O0. English office: Oris A. Kline, c/o John Paradise, 86* Strand. W. C. 2. London. The pub-
lishers arc met responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts, although every care will be taken of such material while is
their possestiam. The contents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright and must not be reproduced either wholly or 1*4
part withowt permission frctan the publishers.

NOTB — All manuscripts aetd tomrauni cation* should be addressed to the publishers' Chicago office at 840 North Michigw

* >, «I. FARNSWORTH WRIGHT, Bditor.

Copyright 1936, by the Popular Fiction Publishing Company.
COmuOHTTO IN MEAT BWTMN

WEIRD TALES ISSUED 1«t OF EACH MONTH

"One hand closed on his thin meek, and
the other, a rock-libe fist, made a
bloody ruin oi bis mouth.**

L

sle of the Undead

By LLOYD ARTHUR ESHBACH

A gripping: thrilling, uncanny tale about the frightful fate that befell
a yachting party on the dreadful island of living dead men

9. A Horror from the Past

A DRAB gray sheet of cloud slipped
stealthily from the moon's round
L face, like a shroud slipping from
the face of one long dead, a coldly phos-
phorescent face from which the eyes had
been plucked. Yellow radiance fell to-
ward a calm, oily sea, seeking a narrow
bank of fog lying low on the water, pen-
etrating its somber mass like frozen yel-
low fingers.

Vilma Bradley shuddered and shrank
Against Clifford Darrell's brawny form.
'Ttt's— it's ghastly, Cliff!" she said.

"Ghastly?" Darrell leaned against the
rail, laughing softly. "One cocktail too
many — that's the answer. It's given you
the jitters. Listen!" Faintly from the
salon came strains of dance music and the
rhythmic shuffle of feet. "A nifty yacht,
a South Sea moon, a radio dance orches-
tra, dancers — and little Clifford! And you
call it ghastly!" Almost savagely his arms
tightened about her, and the bantering
note left his voice. "I'm crazy about you,
Vilma."

She tried to laugh, but it was an un-
convincing sound. "It's the moon, Cliff — •
I guess. I never saw it like that before.

260

WEIRD TALES

Something's going to happen — something
dreadful I just know it!"

"Oh— be sensible, Vilma!" There was
a hint of impatience in Cliff's deep voice.
A gorgeous girl in his arms — dark-haired,
dark-eyed, made for love — and she talked
of dreadful things which were going to
happen because the moon looked screwy.

She released herself and glanced out

over the sea, "I know I'm silly, but "

Her voice froze and her slender body
stiffened. "Cliff — look!"

Darrell spun around, and as he stared,
he felt a dryness seeping into his throat,
choking him. K « a

Out of the winding-sheet of fog into
the moonlight crept a strange, strange
craft, her crumbling timbers blackened
and rotted with incredible age. The
corpse of a ship, she seemed, resurrected
from the grave of the sea. Her prow
thrust upward like a simitar bent back-
ward, hovering over the gaunt ruin of a
cabin whose seaward sides were formed
by port and starboard bows. From a shal-
low pit amidships jutted the broken arm
of a mast, its splintered tip pointing to-
ward the blindly watching moon. The
stern, thkkly covered with the moldering
encrustations of age, curved inward above
the strange high poop, beneath which lay
another cabin. And along either side of
her worm-eaten freeboard ran a row of
apertures like oblong portholes. Out of
these projected great oars, long, unwieldy,
as somberly black as the rest of the
ancient bulk.

Now a sound drifted across the waters,
the steady, rhythmic br-rr-oom, br-rt-oom,
b'rr-oom of a drum beating time for the
rowers, Its hollow thud checked the
heart, set it to throbbing in tempo with
its own weary pulse. Ghostly fingers,
dripping dread, crawled up Darren's
Spine.

Stiff-lipped, Vilma gasped: "What —

Cliff answered in a dry husky voice, the
words seeming to trip over an awkward
tongue. "It's — it's — it can't be, damn it!
— but it's a galley, a ship from the days
of Alexander the Great! What's it doing
— here — now?'

Closer she came through the moon-
path, a frothing lip of brine curling away
from her swelling prow. Closer — her
course crossing that of the Ariel — and the
watchers saw her crew! They gasped, and
the blood ebbed from their faces.

Men of ancient Persia, clad in leather
kirtles and rusted armor, and they were
hideous! In the yellow moon-glow Cliff
could see them clearly now — a lookout
standing motionless in the stem, the
steersman on the poop-deck, the drummer
squatting beside the broken mast, the
rowers in the pit — and all, oil were a
bloodless white, the skin of their faces
puffed and bloated and horribly wrinkled,
like flesh that had been under water a
long time.

Dead men . . . men whose movements
were stiffly wooden ... as dead as their
faces. But most horrible was the fact that
they were there, that they moved at all!

" A Q UEER mira g e . isn't it?" A hollow
■Lm- voice spoke suavely behind them.

Vilma gasped at the sudden sound, and
they whirled. A foot away stood the tall,
lean figure of the Ariel's captain, Leon
Corio. A queer smile twisted his thin
lips.

"What's the idea — sneaking up on
us?" Darrell demanded angrily. He
didn't like this man, hadn't liked him
from the moment he had approached
Cliff to sell him the yacht. But Cliff had
bought the craft because she was a bar-
gain, and in accordance with their agree-
ment he had hired Corio as captain.

The tall man's smile remained fixed,
and he bowed gravely. "Sorry, sir. I al-
ways walk softly, A habit, I suppose."

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

261

He gestured toward the galley. "It looks
quite life-like, don't you chink so?"

"Life-like?" Cliff spoke between his
teeth as he again faced the black ship.
'It looks dead to me!"

The galley had almost reached them
now, veering sharply to draw up beside
the Ariel. The drum quieted, and the
oars trailed in the water, motionless ex-
cept for the swaying imparted by the
waves. A musty, age-old odor filtered
through the air like a breath from a
grave. The music and dancing had
stopped, A fear-filled hush shrouded the
yacht.

Vilma drew Cliffs arm about her
shoulder. He glanced back at the motion-
less captain.

"Do something, Corio!" he rasped.
"Don't stand there like a dummy!"

Corio nodded with his same queer
smile. His hand darted to an inside
pocket, came out bearing a curious in-
strument like four twisted cones of silver
bound together with silver thongs. As he
raised this to his mouth, his eyelids were
slits behind which burned the embers of
his eyes.

Out over the sea crept a single note,
deep, hollow, laden with eery minor wait-
ings — a sound that summoned impera-
tively, yet a sound that repelled. It was a
moan, hideous as the moan of a dying
demon. It raked the heart with fear-
tipped claws. It rose, and fell, and rose
again, and as it died, it awakened the
crew of the ancient galley to motion,
sweeping them in a horde to the rail of
tiie yacht,

Cliff swung toward Corio in bursting
fury, fury mingled with dread. His fist
lashed out at that glittering silver instru-
ment and the face behind it, but Corio
avoided him like a wraith, still smiling
fixedly, the horn again at his lips. Cliff
cursed, and hurled himself through the
air. One hand caught a bonj; shoulder;

he felt fingers like hooks close on his
own throat. He wrenched free, landing a
stunning blow on Corio's face — saw him
reel and crash to the deck — and then he
heard Vilma scream!

He whirled. She was struggling be-
t ween two of the flabby -faced things from
the galley! In an instant he was upon
them, his fist thudding against icy flesh,
burying itself in something horribly soft
and yielding. Startled, Cliff swung a sec-
ond blow; and an arm, tomb-cold and
strong as the tentacle of an octopus,
wrapped itself around him — a vise of
thin-covered bone! A dead, drowned face
peered over his shoulder, staring blankly.
Other arms seized his legs, and though he
struggled and writhed with the strength
of a mounting fear, he was borne to the
rail. Over they went, and dropped to the
rotting deck of the galley.

A numbness was creeping through him
like a contagion, spreading from those
crushing hands of ice. His struggles
ceased. Widi eyes that turned stiffly in
their sockets he looked for Vilma, saw
her raised high above the heads of two
other pallid creatures, saw them climb
over the rail. Then the blackness of a
dank and musty cabin enveloped him;
and he was dropped with jarring force.
His captors bulked black against the
moonlit doorway, tteading soundlessly,
and were gone.

Cliff lay in rigid paralysis, every sense
keenly alive, his mind striving to clutch
a single spar of reason in this chaotic
whirlpool of the incredible. This couldn't
be! Soon he'd awaken to laugh at his ab-
surd nightmare. . . , Yet it seemed hor-
ribly real. ... It was real!

From the Ariel boiled a fearful bed-
lam. Screams of terror. Curses. Then
other shadows loomed in the doorway,
and Vilma, motionless and rigid, was
dropped brutally beside him on die
spongy floor.

262

WEIRD TALES

Furiously Cliff strugged against the
maddening restraint of paralysis. He
couldn't lie here helpless! Vilma needed
him! He'd — he'd have to do something.
Wiht an effort that studded his forehead
with rounded drops of sweat and sent the
blood throbbing through the distended
veins of his neck, he sought to move.
And like a cord snapping, his invisible
bonds fell from him.

He was crouching over Vilma, rubbing
her wrists, calling to her, when again he
heard the silver horn of Corio. A low
droning utterly unlike the note that had
awakened the galley's crew, it drifted
languidly along a channel of endless
sleep. It seeped through the ear-drums,
touching every nerve-tip with resistless
lassitude. Doggedly Cliff fought against
the sound, pressing his hands over his
eats, gritting his teeth, holding his eye-
lids wide. Yet he felt his muscles weaken,
began to relax, knew dimly that his mind,
sodden with drowsiness, was creeping to-
ward the pits of slumber — and the vi-
brant drone ended!

His head cleared rapidly, and he bent
over Vilma. As he touched a limp
arm, he knew she had passed from paraly-
sis into a deep, quiet sleep. He shook her.
It was useless. He listened, heard her
steady breathing; and at that instant real-
ized that the noises from the yacht had
ceased.

Rising, he strode toward the square of
chalky moonlight. A foot away he halted,
fell back. He had heard a faint footfall,
had seen an armor-clad figure climbing
over the rail! With silent haste he flung
himself down beside Vilma.

And there he lay while the crew of the
galley carried his friends from the Ariel,
all slumped in that unnatural sleep, and
stretched them out on the floor of the
black cabin. Unmoving, he watched
through narrow lids till all save Corio

had been carried aboard, and the drowned
things had gone back to their places in
the rowers' pits. Again the hollow voice
of the drum began throbbing through the
silence, and the oars creaked a faint ac-
companiment. He could feel the galley
cleaving the oily sea.

On his feet, he peered through the
doorway. The backs of the rowers rose
and fell with stiff, mechanical rhythm.
Beyond the galley's stern came the yacht,
slinking along like a thief, only one dim
light showing, her Diesel engines purring
almost soundlessly.

He turned and bent over Vilma, still
in thrall to that strange deep slumber.
As he traced the delicate outlines of her
lovely face, now so lifeless and pale, bit-
ter wrath flared within him, wrath and
hatred for Leon Corio. But as he thought
of the ghastly undsad things out there in
the galley pit, thought of this water-
soaked anachronism which had no right
to be afloat, his skin crisped with a sense
of foreboding, a fear of what was yet to
come. He must do something!

Stepping over the still forms of his
friends, he moved to the forward wall
where a beam of radiance crept fearfully
through a gap between two boards. His
hands touched the hull — and he jerked
them away. Rotten, clammy, like a de-
cayed corpse, partly frozen. Crouching,
he peered through.

Far ahead, a blotch of evil blackness
squatted on the horizon, an island crouch-
ing low like a black beast ready to spring.
Around it the moonlight seemed to dim,
as though it were striving to hide some
nameless horror. Interminably Cliff
watched while the shadowed mass drew
closer . . . closer. . . .

They were headed for a towering wall
of black basalt; and as the galley Beared
it, CUff saw that it bore striking resem-
blance to a gigantic human skull, its
rounded surface broken by caves that the

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

26}

sea had carved into hollow eye-sockets and
an empty nasal cavity. The rock wall
ended high above the water; beneath it
lay a gaping chasm of pitchy darkness.
And the galley, drum silenced, oars at
rest, slid under the ledge, into the mouth
of the skull!

Just before total blackness fell, Cliff
sprang to Vilma's side and raised her in
his arms. If he hoped to do anything, he
must do it now! He groped his way to
the starboard bow and moved one hand
along the dank timbers, searching. He
found what he sought, a wide gap at the
edge of a board. Gently lowering Vilma
to the floor, he gripped the slimy wood
with both hands and thrust outward
mightily, A wide strip of decayed tim-
ber burst free. He dropped it into the
sea and attacked the next board. In mo-
ments a wide irregular opening yawned
in the galley's hull.

Leaning out, Cliff looked down. He
could see nothing. Then suddenly a faint
light appeared, and he heard the hum of
the Ariel's motors as she entered the cave.
The bumming ceased instantly, but the
faint light persisted.

Now he could see the blackness of wa-
ters, a rock wall beyond. He drew back —
and as he did so, he heard movements on
deck! At any moment the rowers might
enter! He'd have to risk a drop into the
water with Vilma — there was nothing
else to do. If only she were conscious!

He stooped and raised her, holding her
firmly with one arm. Gripping the hull
with the other, he climbed through the
opening, inhaled deeply, and dropped! A
heart-stopping plunge — and cold water
dosed over them, Down, down — then
they shot upward, reached the surface;
and even as Cliff gulped a single gasping
breath, something struck his skull a blind-
ing, stunning blow! The oars!

With rapidly numbing arms and legs
Cliff kicked and flailed the water, striving

for land. Dimly he knew he no longer
held Vilma; dimly he visioned her as
were those ghastly undead; then his body
scraped on something hard, and a black-
ness that was not physical blotted out con-
sciousness,

2, The Dreadful Isle

RED-HOT hammers pounding against
• his temples wakened Cliff Darrell.
He opened his eyes to stare into total
darkness crawling with mental monsters
spawned by his pain-stabbed brain. He
lay half immersed in shallow brine, his
head resting on a jagged stone just above
the surface. Struggling to his hands and
knees, he shook his head from side to
side, dumbly, like an animal in pain.
Something had hit him — and now he was
in water— and there was no light. What
had happened? Where was Vilma?

Vilma! He groaned. He remembered
now. They had dropped — and his head
had struck something — and — and —
maybe she was floating out there even
now, dead eyes staring upward.

"Vilma!" he cried, his voice pleading,
"Vilma!"

Only a mocking echo answered him.
There was no other sound, not even the
whisper of waves swishing among the
rocks.

Cliff pressed his hands fiercely against
his throbbing head, The pain had become
a madness, matched only by the agony of
his own helplessness. He felt his reason
reeling; he fought an insane desire to"
fling himself shrieking into that silent
expanse of water to search for Vilma; 1
then with a tremendous physical effort he
jarred himself back to sanity.

He staggered to his feet, groped stum-
blingly over the rocks away from the wa»
ter. His hand touched a rock wall broken
and pitted by the action of the sea; and
he crept slowly inland, feeling his wajj

264

WEIRD TALES

like a blind man. As he plodded on his
thoughts blended into one fixed idea: he
must get to light, must get light to search
for Vilma.

Gradually the insensate pounding in
his head abated, and strength returned to
his body. When at last he saw light be-
yond a narrow fissure around an angle in
the cavern, he had almost recovered. In
moments he was gazing out over a plain
bathed in the glow of a leprous moon.
As be stared, he shivered; and it was not
because of the cold draft drawing through
the fissure, fanning his brine-drenched
body.

Grim and starkly forbidding the plain
lay before him, dead as the frozen land-
scape of the moon. Once there had been
life there, but now only the skeletons of
trees remained, lifting their wasted limbs
in rigid pleading to an unresponsive sky.
Some, there were, that had fallen, up-
rooted by the fury of passing hurricanes;
these lay like the scattered bones of a
dismembered giant, age-blackened, and
painted with hoarfrost by the brushes of
moonlight. Feebly the dead forest stirred
under the touch of a moaning wind, and
the gaunt shadows cast by the trees
seemed to be multi-armed monsters slith-
ering over the rocky earth.

He looked beyond the trees, and he
saw light. Little squares of pale radiance
cut high in the walls of an ancient black
castle. Castle? Cliff frowned. He could
liken it to nothing else, though he could
not recall ever having seen a castle which
thrust curving, needle-thin spires into the
sky like a devil's horns.

Impatiently Qiff stepped from the wall
of rock and glanced along a path that
writhed through the forest; glanced —
and crouched swiftly, a low cry escaping
him. A single spot of water on a smooth,
flat stone! A spot shaped like a woman's
shoe! Vilma had passed this way!

But — might it not have been some

other woman from the Ariel? No! They
had been carried — and even if they had
walked, their feet were dry!

Like a hound on the scent, CM Dar-
rell sped along the serpentine path. The
wind moaned above him, and the sough-
ing branches seemed to whisper croaking
warnings, but he ran on, his eyes con-
stantly seeking signs of Vilraa's course.
Here a drop of water shaken from her
drenched skirt, there another; and Qiff
blessed the full moon whose light made
possible his trailing of the almost invis-
ible spoor.

Now he had passed beyond the dead
forest and was moving toward the castle.
The trail had been growing steadily faint-
er, but he managed to follow it. It led
him toward a narrow stone stairway
climbing crookedly to a misshapen open-
ing in the wall. Light glowed faintly lu-
rid somewhere deep within; and now
Cliff heard a blasphemous sound belch
from the depths of the castle — a wheez-
ing, sardonic croaking like the moan of a
demoniac organ, rumbling an obscene
dirge. His hair bristled, and he stopped
short.

He looked at the steps, searching for
the fading trail — and he stiffened. There
on the second step was an irregular blotch
of moisture! What did it mean? Had
Vilma crouched there? Had she ascended
those steps? Entered?

With drawn face he began to skirt
the base of the black building,
searching every nook and cranny, scan-
ning the bare walls. His heart lay like
ballast in his breast. If — if something
had lured Vilma into that demon-infested
vault ... he checked the thought.

Suddenly he cursed. Mechanically he
had begun to measure his stride in time
with the doleful dirge from the castle.
He stalked on with altered pace. As he
rounded the corner at the rear of die

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

265

structure, he saw a shadow outlined
against the sky, crouching on a ledge be-
low one of the little windows. He looked
again — cried;

"Vilma!"

The figure above him stirred, looked
down, then climbed hastily earthward. It
was Vilma . . . Vilma, with black hair
hanging stringily about her head, face
pale, eyes fixed in the wideness of fear
. . . Vilma, with her wet clothing cling-
ing to the lovely contours of her symmet-
rical body.

"Oh, Cliff!" she gasped, a dry sob
choking her. "Thank God — thank God!"

She dung to him, her face hidden
against his shoulder, quivering uncon-
trollably. Then tears came, saving tears,
relieving her pent-up emotions.

Cliff said nothing, only held her dose,
strongly protective. And gradually he
felt the tempest of terror subside. At last
she looked up. Some of the dread had
gone from her face, and she tried to
smile.

"I guess— I can't take it," she said.

Cliff shook his head solemnly. "You're
a game girl, Vilma! You've nerve enough
for two men. If you can, tell me what
happened. Of if you'd rather let it wait,
just say so."

"I'll feel better if I get it off my chest,"
she said. "You probably saw those—
things — carry me from the yacht." Cliff
nodded. "Well, I was just about para-
lyzed when they dropped me in their ter-
rible boat. I remember, you tried to
arouse me; then that horn blew, and I
just seemed to float away in an ocean of
sleep.

"After that I can remember nothing
till I awoke with water filling my eyes
and nose and mouth, choking me. Some-
one's arms were around me — it must have
been you, Cliff — and then they weren't
there any more, and I struggled wildly,
out of my wits. I don't know how I got

to shore, but I did, and I lay there in the
shadow of the galley, choking and gag-
ging, but afraid to cough. It wasn't alto-
gether dark, and I could see those dread-
ful things with people hanging over their
shoulders, carrying them along a narrow
ledge close to the water's edge, heading
inland. I thought maybe you were one of
those limp bodies; and I — I almost died
of fright. After a while the last one had
gone, and the light went out. Then I
heard another pair of feet moving over
the rocks. Corio, I suppose. The sound
died— and I was alone.

"That place was awful, Cliff. The
blackness almost drove me mad. I wanted
to scream, but I was afraid to. Some ter-
rible weight seemed to be crushing my
lungs. If I followed those undead things,
they might capture me, but it seemed
worse to stay there in that dreadful dark.

"I got out of there somehow, though
it seemed to take hours. Then I didn't
know what to do. I stood at the edge of
the dead forest trying to dedde; trying,
too, to keep myself from shrieking and
running — anywhere. Then Corio's horn
blew again — a sound, Cliff, worse than
anything I've ever heard. It — it was a
wicked sound, promising to fulfill every
foul desire that ever tainted a human
mind. It repelled, yet it lured irresistibly.
And — I answered!"

She stopped, and buried her face in
her hands. After a moment she went on.
"The sound stopped just as I found my-
self crawling on hands and knees up the
stone stairway on the other side. Another
started — that awful groaning — music —
but it didn't draw me. I ran down the
steps and scurried away like a rabbit try-
ing to find a place to hide.

"After a while I came back — I thought
you must be in there — and I climbed up
to the window. And — and — Cliff, it's
hellish!"

Her eyes, boring into his, widened in

266

WEIRD TALES

the same rigid terror he had seen in them
when he joined her.

"We could go back to the cove and get
away on the Ariel, Vilma," Cliff said
stonily. "And if you think we should,
we will. But — I brought our friends here,
and — well, I want to get them out if I
can."

With an effort Vilma nodded. "Of
course. We can't do anything else."

He released her and stepped up to the
wall,

"I'm going to see what's going on in
there," he said. "You wait here till I
tome down."

In sudden dread Vilma seized his arm.
"No, Cliff. I couldn't stand waiting here
alone. I'll go with you."

He nodded understandingly. And to-
gether they began climbing the precipi-
tous wall, fitting hands and feet in step-
like crevices that made progress fairly
rapid. Soon they were crouching on a
wide stone ledge, clinging to thin, rusted
bars, staring into the black castle.

3, The Steps of Torture

A gigantic hall lay before them, a sin-
gle chamber whose walls were the
walls of the castle, whose arched ceiling
rose far above them. Directly below their
window a stone platform jutted from the
wall, spreading entirely across the cham-
ber. A ttone altar squatted in the center
of the platform, a strangely phosphores-
cent fire smoldering on its top. And from
the altar descended a wide, wide stairway
ending k the middle of the hall. All this
Cliff saw in a single sweeping glance; af-
terward he had eyes for nothing save the
lethal harror of a mad, mad scene, re-
vealed by the dim radiance of the altar
fire.

Behind the altar stood five huge figures
clad in long, hooded cloaks of scarlet.
The central figure had arms raised wide,

his cloak spread like the wings of some
bloody bird of prey; and from his lips
came a guttural incantation, a blasphe-
mous chant in archaic Latin, in time with
the wheeze of the buried organ. Now his
arms dropped, and he was silent.

From the room below came a concerted
whine of ceremonial devotion, a hollow,
hungry wail. It rose from the bloodless
lips of strangely assorted human figures
ranging down the center of the long stair-
way in two facing columns. A hundred
or more there must have been, represent-
ing half as many periods and countries,
according to their strange and ancient cos-
tumes. Men in the armor of medieval
Persia — the crew of the black galley; yel-
low-haired Vikings; hawk-faced Egyp-
tians with leather-brown skins; half-naked
islanders; red-sashed pirates from the
Spanish main; men of today! And about
all, like the dampness that clings to a
tombstone, hovered a cloud of—death!
The undead!

Cliff's gaze roved over the tensely wait*
ing columns, then leaped to the foot of
the stairs. There, cowering dumbly like
sheep in a slaughter-pen, were his friends
from the Ariel. All clothing had been
stripped from them, and they stood wait-
ing in waxen, statuesque stiffness. He saw
then that three others lay prone before
the stone altar, naked and ominously still.

And far down at the very end of the
hall stood Leon Corio, draped in a hood-
ed cape of unbroken black, a glint of sil-
ver in his hand — his horn of drugging
sounds.

Now, as though at a silent command, a
girl left the group and began to mount
the stairs, as those motionless three must
have mounted! Vivacious Ann— she had
been the life of Cliff's yacht party; but
now she was — changed. Her blanched
face was rigid with inexpressible terror
despite the semi-stupor which numbed
her senses. Her nude body glowed like

ISLE OF THE UNBEAD

267

marble in the dim light. Horribly, her
feet began their climb with a little catch
step suggested by the moaning chant of
that cracked organ note.

She reached the first of the undead,
and Cliff saw light glint on a knife-blade.
A crimson gash appeared in the flesh of
her thigh; and dead lips toadied that
wound, drank thirstily. The girl strode
on, blood gleaming darkly on the white
skin. A second drank of the crimson
flow — a third — and the blood ceased
gushing forth.

Another knife flashed- — and lips closed
again and again on a redly dripping
wound. And the girl with the unchanging
pace of a robot climbed the stairway to
its very top — climbed while fiendish
corpses drank her life's blood — climbed,
to sink down on the altar.

One of the red-dad figures stooped
over her, lifted her, buried long teeth in
her throat — and Cliff saw his face. . . ,
His own face paled, and talons of fear
raked his brain. Those others on the stairs
—they were abhorrent, zombies freed
from the grave. But this monster! A
vampire vested with the lust and cruelty
and power of hell!

He lowered her, finally, and she sank
down, lay still, beside the other three.

Another began the hellish dimb, a
giant of a man with a thickly muscled
torso. Cliff knew him instantly; and his
heart seemed to stop. Leslie Starke!
They'd played football together. A brave
man — a fighter. He mounted the stair-
way with the same little catch step, the
same plodding stiffness. No resistance,
no struggle— only a hell of fear on his
face.

The marrow melted from Cliff Dar-
rell's bones. What — what could he do
against a power that did that to Les
Starke? He tried to swallow, but the sa-
liva had dried on his tongue. He wanted
to turn to Vilma, but he could not wrench

his eyes from the frightful spectacle.

Up the stone steps Starke strode. And
no blade leaped toward him; no thirsty
lips closed on his flesh! In an unwaver-
ing line he mounted toward the cowled
monster in the center of the dab, like a
puppet on the end of a string; mounted
to pause before the stone altar, to lie on
it, head bent back, throat bared. . . .
Mercifully Cliff regained enough control
to close his eyes.

He opened them at a gasp from Vilma;
saw the vampire raise the flacrid body of
Les Starke and hurl it far from him, to
crash to the stone steps, to roll and thud
and tumble, down and down, sickening-
ly, to he awkwardly twisted on the floor
before his companions!

And another began to dimb the long
stone steps. , . ,

All through the interminable night
Cliff and Vilma crouched on the ledge,
staring through the barred window. A
hundred times they would have fled to
escape the maddening scene, but they
could not move. Senses reeled before the
awful monotony of the ceaseless climb-
ing, their eyes smarted with fixed staring,
their tongues and throats were parched
to desert dryness; yet only after hours of
endless watching, only after the last vic-
tim had climbed the steps, did the edge
of terror dull, and a modicum of control
return to their bodies.

Stiffly Cliff looked over his shoulder.
A faint tinge of gray rimmed the sea on
the eastern horizon.

"Almost daylight," he whispered
hoarsely.

Vilma nodded, her gaze still held by
that chamber of horror. Cliff followed
the direction of her eyes; and saw Corio
standing like a great bat in his hooded
cape close to the far wall. He raised his
four-piped horn to his lips. And the in-
strument's fourth note crept through the
room.

268

WEIRD TALES

IT was a doleful sound, a cry like the
cry Death itself might possess; yet
oddly — and horribly — it was soothing,
promising the peace of endless sleep.
And touched by its power, the columns
of undead stiffened, thinned to wraiths,
flowed as water flows down the stone
steps, vanished!

The dead-alive — those five vampires in
crimson cowls — looked upward uneasily.
The shadows under the roof were gray-
ing with the light of dawn. Cliff could
sense their thought, Before sunrise they
must be in their tombs under the castle,
«o sleep until another night. With one
accord they strode down the stairs, past
Corio who had prostrated himself, and
entered a black opening in the wall.
With their departure the altar fire
dimmed to a sullen ember.

Corio arose. He was alone in the
chamber save for that dead, broken body
lying in a twisted heap at the foot of the
stairs, and those other half-alive wretches
stretched out before the altar. Now, Cliff
told himself, was the time for him to get
in there at Corio; now was the time to
rescue his friends — but he continued to
crouch, unmoving.

Again Corio blew on his silver horn,
and a faint cry leaped from Vilma's
tensed lips. The luring note that had
drawn her, Cliff thought hazily; then he
thought of nothing save the sound, the
sound that promised him all he could
desire. Earth and its dominion, his for
the taking — if he answered that call! . . .
Then even the sound eluded his senses,
and he heard only the promise. ... He
must answer, must claim what was right-
fully his!

But those half -dead creatures — sight of
their stirring steadied his staggering
sanity. Here and there heads lifted and
bloodless husks of bodies tried to rise.
In the pallid light they seemed like
corpses, freed from newly opened graves.

Some could only reach their knees; others
rose to uncertain limbs. And all moved
down the stairway toward Corio, answer-
ing his summons; followed as he made
his slow way toward the opening in the
wall, still blowing the single note — the
note that promised Earth and all it
held. . . .

Cliff glanced toward Vilrna — and she
was not there. He looked down, saw her
far below, dropping from crack to crevice
with amazing speed and daring, hasten-
ing toward— Corio!

The thought jarred any lingering taint
of allurement from Cliff's mind. He
must stop her. He swung around, ignor*
ing the cramped stiffness of his legs, and
started down the steep wall. Down,
down, recklessly, with Corio's horn-note
only a faintly heard sound fading behind
him.

Now he saw Vilma reach the rocks
below and dash around the corner of the
castle, and he cursed, redoubling his
speed. Down — down — and suddenly the
ancient rock crumbled underfoot. For an
instant he hung from straining fingertips
— then dropped.

A smashing impact — a stone that slid
beneath him — and his head crashed
against the castle wall. Through a fiery
mist of pain he pictured Vilma in the
grasp of Corio. The mist thickened —
grew black — engulfed him.

4. In Corio's Hands

Cliff awoke with the sun glaring
down on his face. He opened his
eyes, and stabbing lances of light
pierced his eyeballs. Momentarily
blinded, he pressed his hands across
his face and struggled erect. There was a
sick feeling in his stomach, and the back
of his head throbbed incessantly. He
touched the aching area, and winced. A
lump like an egg thrust out his scalp;

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

269

It was sticky with blood. He stood there,
weaving from side to side, trying to recall
something. . . .

As memory came, he groaned. Vilma!
He had last seen her racing madly toward
Corio, lured by his damned horn. It was
daylight now; the sun had risen at least
an hour ago. An hour — with Vilma
gone!

Shaking his head to clear it, and grit-
ting his teeth at the pain, he stalked along
the wall. Turning the corner he strode
on toward the crooked steps. The life-
less terrain reeled dizzily, but he went
on resolutely. The pain in his head was
fading to a dull ache; and as he mounted
the steps, strength seemed to flow back
into his legs. With every sense taut he
passed into the gloom of the castle.

A quick glance he cast about— saw the
body of Starke lying where it had fallen.
No use to examine it; there was no life
there. His gaze swept up the slope of
the stairway to the altar at its head,
lingered on the phosphorescent eye of
light .still glowing there. Then he
shrugged grimly and moved on to the
doorway in the wall. Warily he peered
in.

As his eyes adjusted themselves to the
greater darkness, he saw a narrow stair-
way leading downward into a shadowy
corridor. Somewhere in the tunnel's
depths a faint light shone. He could see
nothing more. He moved stealthily down
the damp, dank stairs.

At the bottom he paused, listening.
He could hear nothing. A hundred feet
ahead, the corridor divided in two; a
burning torch was thrust in the wall at
the junction. Cliff nodded with satisfac-
tion. Corio must be somewhere near by;
for only a human needed light.

Silently Cliff strode along the corridor.
At the fork he hesitated, then chose the
tight branch, for light glowed faintly

along that passageway. The other led
downward, black as the pits of hell.

A doorway appeared in the wall ahead,
and he moved warily, with flsts clenched.
Flickering torchlight filtered into the cor-
ridor. There was no audible sound. Now
Cliff peered into a small chamber, and
gasped in sudden horror, his eyes staring
unwinkingly at a spectacle incredibly
pitiful.

Here were the passengers of the Ariel,
whitely naked, and lying in little groups
on the cold stone floor, huddled together
for warmth. Their faces turned toward
Darreli as he stood in the doorway, but
there was no recognition in the vacuous
eyes, no thought, no intelligence, and
little life in the wide-mouthed stares. It
seemed as though their souls had been
drained from their bodies with theif
blood.

Sickened, Cliff turned away, cursing
his own helplessness to aid them, cursing
Leon Corio who was responsible for
their plight. Black wrath gripped him
as he moved on.

Again the corridor branched, and
again he kept to the right. Suddenly he
halted, ears straining. He heard the
sound of a voice — the hollow voice of
Corio! It came faintly but clearly from a
room at the end of the passageway. Cliff
went forward slowly.

"And so, my dear," Corio was saying,
"we entered into a pact with the—
Master, a pact sealed with blood. In
exchange for our lives we three were to
bring other humans to this island for the
feasting of the dead-alive. Every third
month each of us must return with our
cargo when the moon is full; and since
we come back on alternating months,
they have a constant supply of fresh
blood. Usually some of our captives live
from full moon to full moon before they
become like those of the galley — the un-
dead. Some of these we waken when it

270

WEIRD TALES

suits oar fancy; they ate not like the
Masters; they awaken only when we call
them — we three or the Masters.

"More than life they give ns for what
we do. Centuries ago pirates used this
island for refuge. They — died — and they
left their treasure in this castle. It lies in
the room where the Masters lie; and we
three receive payment in gold and gems.
Tonight I receive my pay, and tomorrow
I leave on the Ariel — and you go with
me!"

Cliff heard Vilma answer, and even
while his heart leaped with relief, he
marveled at the cool scorn in her voice.

"So I go with you, do I? I'd rather
climb the stairs with the rest of your
victims than have anything to do with
you — you monster! When Cliff Darrell
finds you "

"Darrell!" Corio's voice was a frozen
sneer. "He'll do nothing! I'll find him
— and he'll wish he could climb the
stairs of blood! As for you, you'll go
with me, and like it! A drop of my blood
in your veins, and you will belong to the
Master, as I do. We shall attend to
that; but first there is something else —
more pleasant." His words fell to an
indistinguishable purr.

Still moving stealthily, Cliff hastened
forward. Suddenly Vilma screamed; and
he launched himself madly across the re-
maining distance, stood crouching at the
threshold.

Vilma lay on an ancient bed, her wrists
and ankles bound with leather thongs
drawn about the four tall bed-posts. Only
the torn remnants of her under-garments
covered the rounded contours of her
body, and Corio crouched over her, ca-
ressing the pink flesh. Vilma writhed
beneath his touch.

Cliff growled deep in his throat as he
sprang. Corio spun around and
leaped aside, but he was too slow to es-

cape Cliff's powerful lunge. Oae hand
dosed on his thin neck, and the other, a
rock-like fist, made a bloody ruin of his
mouth. Howling with pain, Corio tried
to sink his teeth in Cliff's arm.

Cliff flung him aside, following with
the easy glide of a boxer. Corio crawled
to his feet, cringing, dodging before the
nemesis that stalked him. Again Cliff
leaped, and Corio, yellow with fear,
darted around the bed and ran wildly into
the hallway. At the door Cliff checked
himself, reason holding him. Corio
could elude him with ease in this
labyrinth of passages; and his first con-
cern was Vilma's safety.

He returned to the bed. Vilma looked
up at him with such relief and thankful-
ness on her face that Cliff, with a little
choked cry, flung himself to his knees
beside the bed and kissed her hungrily.
For moments their lips clung; then Cliff
straightened shakily, trying to laugh.

"We've got to get out of here, sweet-
heart," he said. "I'm not afraid of
Corio, but he knows things about this
place that we don't know. After* you're
safe on the yacht, I'll come back and get
him."

He looked around for something with
which to cut her bonds. On the wall
above the bed were crossed a pair of
murderous-looking cutlases. Seizing one
of these, Cliff wrenched k from its
fastenings and drew it through the
cords. . . . She stood beside him, free.

"Your clothing " Oiff began, his

eyes on her almost-nude body.

She blushed and pointed mutely to a
heap of rags on the floor. Her eyes
flamed wrathfully. "He — he ripped them
from me!"

The muscles of Cliffs jaws knotted,
and he scowled as he surveyed the room
for a drape or hanging to cover her. For
the first time he really saw the place. AM
the lavish splendor of royalty had bttn

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

271'

expended on this chamber. It might have
been the bedroom of a king, except that
the ancient furnishings belonged to no
particular period; were, in fact, the loot
of raids extended over centuries. Yet de-
spite its splendor, everything was repul-
sive, cloaked with the same air of un-
earthly gloom that hovered about the
galley.

He moved toward an intricately woven
tapestry; but Vilma checked him, shud-
dering with revulsion.

"No, Cliff — it's too much like grave
clothes. Everything about this place
makes my flesh crawl. I'd rather stay
as I am than touch any of it!"

Cliff nodded slowly. "Let's go then."

They hurried through the corridors
toward the stairway, with Cliff holding
the cutlas in readiness. As they passed
the room in which lay the Ariel's pas-
sengers, he tried to divert Vilma's atten-
tion, but she looked in as though
hypnotized.

"I saw them before," she whispered.
"It's awful."

As they started up the stairway to
the great hall, Cliff took the lead. He
moved with utmost caution,

"It doesn't seem right," he said un-
easily. "We should hear from Corio."

At that moment they did hear from
him — literally. From somewhere in the
maze of tunnels came the sound of his
accursed horn — the note of sleep! It
swirled insidiously about their heads,
numbiag their senses. Cliff felt his
stride falter, saw Vilma stumble, and he
hurled himself forward furiously, grip-
ping her arm.

"Hurry!" he shouted, striving to pierce
the fog of sleep, "We've got to get out!
Damn him!"

Vilma rallied for an instant, and they
reached the top of the stairs. On — across
that wide, wide room, each step a
struggle. , « , On while the droning

sound floated languidly through every
nerve cell. . . . On — till their muscles
could no longer move, and they sagged
to the hard stone, asleep.

Moments later Cliff opened his eyes
to meet the hellish glare of Leon
Corio. Corio smiled thinly.

"So — you awaken. Good! I would
have you know the fate I have planned
for you. You see this?" He held the
cutlas high above Darren's throat like
the blade of a guillotine. 'With this I
could end your life quite painlessly and
quickly. It really would prove entertain-
ing for Miss Bradley, I'm sure." He
chuckled faintly behind bruised and
swollen lips.

Cliff squirmed, striving to rise, then
subsided instantly. He was bound hand
and foot.

"I could kill you," Corio repeated
musingly, "but that would lack finesse."
His teeth bared in a feline smile. "And
it would be such a waste — of blood!
Instead, I'll take you out to the galley and
let you lie there till her crew awakens
tonight. They have tasted blood, and
after tonight will taste none again for
another month. I imagine they'll — drain
you dry!" The last phrase was a vicious
snarl.

Cliff heard Vilma utter a suppressed
sob, and he turned his head. She lay close
by, bound like him with strips of leather.
Furiously Cliff strained at his fetters,
but they held.

"And while you wait for those gentle
Persians to awaken," Corio continued in
tones caressingly soft, "you can think o£
your sweetheart in my arms! It may
teach you not to strike your betters — \
though you can never profit by your
lesson."

Stooping, he raised Cliff's powerful
form and managed to fling him over one
shoulder. Then he moved from the great

272

WEIRD TALES

hall, dowQ the stone steps, and across the
dead plain -with its sighing skeleton
trees. He was panting jerkily by the time
he came to the fissure leading to the
cove, but he reached it, despite Cliff's
two hundred pounds. Without pausing,
he went on into the cavern, along the
rock ledge, to step at last upon the deck
of the black galley.

"Pleasant thoughts," he said gently as
he dropped Cliff to the spongy boards,
"You have only to wait till dark!"

Cliff listened to his rapid footfalls till
they died in distance; then there was no
sound save his own breathing.

Gradually his eyes became accustomed
to the heavy gloom, and he saw that
Corio had dropped him just at the edge
of the rowers' pit. There were white
things down there — bones, pale as
marble, scattered about aimlessly. Could
— could those bones join to make the
rowers who would arise with the night?
It seemed absurd — was absurd— yet he
knew it was so! He had seen too much
to doubt it.

He rolled over on his back and stared
upward into the shadows. He must lie
here helpless while Corio returned to
Vilma — did with her as he pleased!
Perhaps he might even transform her
into a blood-tainted monster like himself!
He saw her again in that room of
ancient splendor, spread-eagled to the
bed; and the muscles corded in his arms,
and his lips strained white in a futile
effort to break free.

Interminably he lay there waiting. The
galley was damp with the chilling damp-
ness of a sepulcher, and the dampness
penetrated deeper and deeper. Clamping
his jaws together to prevent their quiver-
ing, he struggled against a rising tide of
madness which gnawed at his reason.
His mind began to crunch and jangle
like a machine out of gear, threatening
to destroy itself,

On and on in plodding indifference
the stolid moments passed, till at last
Cliff realized that it was growing darker.
He rolled over on his side and stared
into the galley pit, eyes fixed on the
inert masses of white. Soon they would
move! Soon the undead would rise! His
thoughts, touched by the whips of dread,
sped about like slaves seeking escape from
& torture pit. And abruptly out of the
welter of chaotic ideas came one straw
of sanity; he seized it, his heart hammer-
ing with hope.

Those Persian sailors were armed!
Their swords and knives were real, for
they cut flesh! Somewhere among their
bones must lie sharp-edged blades!

He struggled to the edge of the pit,
let his feet drop over. As they touched,
he balanced precariously for an instant,
then fell to his knees. He peered fever-
ishly about among white bones, molder-
ing garments, and rusted armor — and
saw a faint glimmer of light on pointed
steel. He sank forward on his face in
the direction of the gleam, turned over,
squirmed and writhed till he felt the
cold blade against his hands. He caught
it between his fingers and began sawing
back and forth.

It was heart-breaking work. Age had
dulled the weapon, and long slivers of
rust flaked off, but the leather which
bound him was also ancient. Though
progress was slow, and the effort labori-
ous, Cliff knew his bonds were
weakening.

But it was growing darker. Even now
he could see only a suggestion of gray
among the shadows. If those undead
things materialized while he lay among
them! . . , Sweat stood out on his fore-
head and he redoubled his efforts, strain-
ing at the leather as he sawed.

With a snap the cords parted and his
hands were free. A single slash severed
the thongs about his ankles, and he stood
W. T.— 1

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

273

up, leaped to the deck. Not an instant
too soon! There was movement in the
pit — a hideous crawling of bones as-
sembling themselves into skeletal
form. . . .

Cliff waited to see no more. There
were limits to what one could see and
remain sane. With a bound he crossed
the rotting deck, and sprang ashore.
Despite the dark, he almost ran from
the madness of that cave, ran till he
passed through the wall of rock, till he
saw the rim of the moon gleaming be-
hind the castle.

5. The End of the Island

Out on the plain he sprinted through
the ghostly forest. He knew he had
no time to spare — knew that soon the
march of torture would begin — knew
that if Vilma were within the castle, she
must answer the summons of Corio's
horn. Even now light glowed faintly in
the high, square windows.

That horn! At the foot of the steps
he stopped short. If he heard the horn,
he too must answer! He dared not risk
it. With impatient fingers he tore a strip
of doth from his shirt, rolled it into a
cylinder, and thrust it into his ear. An-
other for the other ear — and he darted
up into the castle.

A sweeping glance revealed no one,
only the murky glow of the altar fire,
and the wraiths of smoke pluming up-
ward toward the shadowed roof. Wish-
ing now that he had brought a weapon
from the galley, Cliff crossed to the
opening in the wall. He stood at the
top of the steps, listening, then cursed
silently as he remembered that he could
bear none but very loud sounds. He saw
nothing; so he hastened down into the
corridor. His steps were swiftly stealthy
as he moved toward Corio's room.

He was past the first branching pas-
W. T.— 2

sage, when a sixth sense warned him of
someone's approach. He ran swiftly to
the next fork, then paused within its
shelter and glanced back, saw five red-
cowled figures glide along the tunnel
and vanish up the stairway. Cliff
frowned. With the vampires in the great
hall, Corio must soon follow, leading his
victims to the blood-feast. He drew back
deeper into the shadows.

His groping hands touched something
in the dark — round and hard — like a
keg. Curiously he investigated. It was
a keg, and there were others. A sandy
powder trailed to the floor from a crack
in one of them. Thoughtfully Qiff let it
run through his fingers. Gunpowder! Of
course — he had heard Corio mention
pirates and their treasure, and this had
been their cache of explosive. An idea
was forming. . . .

He looked up to see a shadow pass the
mouth of the tunnel; he crept forward
and peered out He saw the blade-hooded
figure of Leon Corio striding along, saw
him enter the room where the passengers
of the Ariel lay. In a breath Qiff was
down the corridor to Corio's room. A
tarnished silver candelabrum shed faint
light through the chamber, and by its
flickering glow he searched for Vilma,
thoroughly, painstakingly — futiiely.

He stood in the center of the room in
indecision, his forehead creased with
anxiety. If only he could find her, he'd
know how to plan! He ran his hand
through his hair helplessly, then heard
very faintly the luring note of Corio's
horn. She must answer that summons,
unless Corio had her tied somewhere.
His best chance of finding her lay in the
hall above.

On the wall still hung the mate of the
cutlas he had used to free Vilma; he
wrenched it down and ran out into the
corridor. The last of the naked marchers
was disappearing up the stairway, Now

274

WEIRD TA1ES

the hom-note died, and he could feel
more than hear the rumbling bass of the
dirge from the depths below him.

He ran the rest of the distance along
the passageway and mounted the steps
two at a stride. He looked into the tor-
ture hall. As on the previous night,
Corio stood far back, close to the wall
in which Cliff crouched. The arms of
the Master were raised high; raised,
Cliff knew though he could not hear it,
in a blasphemous incantation. And then
he saw something that sent a crimson
lance of fury crashing through his brain.

Vilraa, stripped like the rest, stood
with the other victims at the foot of the
long steps! Her body gleamed pinkly,
in contrast to the pallid drabness of the
half-dead automatons, and she held her
head proudly erect. But from where he
stood Cliff could see the side of her
face, and it bore a look of terror.

He could see Corio's face, too, and he
was looking at the girl, baffled fury
glaring from his eyes — as though she
were there against his will.

Cliffs first impulse was to fling him-
self out there with his curias and hack a
way to freedom for Vilma and himself,
but cold reason checked this folly. Such
a course could end only in death. Motion-
less he watched the scene before him, his
brain frantically seeking a plan with even
a ghost of a chance of succeeding.

The gunpowder! There was enough of
the stuff below to blast this entire castle
into the hell where it belonged! Hastily
he retraced his steps to the tunnel in
which he had found the kegs, plucking
the torch from its niche in the wall as
he passed it. He held it high above his
head as he examined the contents of the
broken keg. Unmistakably gunpowder!

Thrusting the curias beneath his belt,
he clutched a handful of the black dust.
Then, crouching close to the floor, he
drew an irregular thread through the

passageway toward the stairs. Once he
returned for more powder, but in a few
minutes the job was done. At the foot
of the steps where the trail ended, he
touched his torch to the black line and
watched a hissing spark snake its white-
smoked way back toward the powder
kegs. An instant he watched it, then
sprang up the stairs. He'd have to move
fast!

With a hideous howl he darted into
the hall, his cutlas above his head. Corio
spun about — and it was his last living act.
A single sweep of the great blade sheared
his head from his neck, sent it rolling
grotesquely along the floor. For three
heart-beats the body stood with a foun-
tain of blood spurting from severed
arteries; then it crashed.

Coolly Cliff leaned over the twitching
cadaver, ignoring the bedlam on the
stairs, the horde sweeping down toward
him, hurling aside the waiting humans.
He pried open clutching fingers, seized
a twisted silver instrument, and raised it
to his lips.

The mass of undead were almost
upon him, the murky light glinting
on menacing blades, when Cliff blew the
first note. The note of sleep! He tried
again, hastily. And it was the right one!

At the doleful, soothing sound the un-
dead halted in their tracks; halted — and
melted into nothingness before his eyes!

But now those other five in their robes
of bloody red — they were charging, and
even though they were unarmed, Cliff
felt a stab of fear. They possessed
powers beyond the human, powers a
mortal could not combat. He braced him-
self and waited.

At the bottom of the steps they
stopped, ranging in a wide half-circle.
The central monster — the Master — flung
up his arms in a strangely terrifying ges-
ture, and Cliff saw his carmine lips move

ISLE OF THE UNDEAD

275

in a chant which he could not hear.
Something, a chilling Presence, hovered
about him, seemed to settle upon him,
cloaking him with the might of the devil
himself. That unheard incantation con-
tinued, and Cliff felt a cold rigidity
creeping through every fiber, slowly
freezing his limbs into columns of ice.

With a mighty effort of will he flung
himself toward that accursed drinker of
blood — and at that instant a terrific de-
tonation rocked the ancient building, and
a cloud of smoke and flame burst from
the opening in the wall. Cliff was
hurled from his feet, rolled over and
over, and crashed against the wall by the
awful concussion, the cutlas and silver
horn sent whirling through the air.

Dizzily he staggered to his feet,
crouching defensively. Sounds came to
him clearly now; the explosion must have
jarred the plugs from his ears. He
scanned the room; saw the unclad hu-
mans scattered everywhere, most of them
lying still and unconscious. He saw
Vilma rising slowly; then he looked for
the monsters in red. Startled, he saw
them rushing toward the opening in the
wall, to vanish in its smoke-filled inter-
ior. Why did they- — -? Then he knew.
Down there somewhere were their graves
— graves rent and broken by the explo-
sion—graves threatened by the flames —
and panic had seized the vampires, fear
of the death which would result with
exile from their tombs!

Unsteadily Cliff crossed to Vilma. She
saw him coming and flung herself sob-
bing into his arms. He crushed her lithe
form close — and another explosion, more
violent than the first, sent a section of
the stone floor leaping upward as though
with life of its own. Clinging to Vilma,
Cliff managed to maintain his footing,
though the floor bucked and heaved. A
snapping, booming roar — and a great
chasm opened in the floor. A breathless

instant — and a segment of the stone
stairs, rumbling thunderously, dropped
out of sight into a newly formed pit!
With it went the blasphemous altar and
its phosphorescent fire.

Deafened, stunned, momentarily
powerless to move, Cliff's mind groped
for an explanation. It seemed incredible
that gunpowder could cause such havoc.
And the swaying of the floor continued;
the thick stone walls shook alarmingly.
Suddenly he understood. An earthquake!
The explosions had jarred the none-too-
stable understrata of rock into spasmodic
motion that must grind everything to
bits! The island was doomed! And
Earth would be better without k.

If only they could reach the Ariel first!

New strength flowed through him, and
hugging Vilma close, he staggered
toward the spot where he knew the door
must be. Somehow he reached it, and
reeled down the broken stone steps.

The plain of dead trees swayed like
the deck of a ship in a storm as Cliff
started across it. A gale had arisen and
swept in from the sea, ripping dry
branches from the skeleton growths and
whirling them about like straws. Yet
somehow Cliff reached the crevice in the
rock wall with his burden, reached the
deck of the galley, crossed it, and won
to the safety of the Ariel. Minutes later,
with Diesel engines purring, they crept
out through the narrow channel into the
open sea.

Ten minutes later the Isle of the
Undead lay safely behind them.
Vilma had dressed; and now they sat
together in the pilot house. CUff had
one arm about her, and one hand on
the wheel.

"And so," the girl was saying, "while
Corio carried you to that terrible old
boat, I got loose. He hadn't tied me
very tightly, and I slipped my hands

276

WEIRD TALES

free. I had to hide, and I could think
of only one place that might be safe,
where he wouldn't think to look for me.
I ran down to the room where those —
those others lay; I undressed, and buried
myself among them. It was horrible —
the way they sucked each other's
wounds. . . ."

Cliff pressed a hand across her lips.
"Forget that!" he said almost fiercely.
'Forget all of it — d'you hear?"

She looked up at him and said simply:
' III try."

They glanced back toward the black
blotch on the horizon. The seismic dis-

turbances continued unabated. At that
moment they saw the barrier of rock like
a skull split and sink into the sea Be-
yond, cleansing tongues of flame licked
the sky. They saw a single jagged wall
of the castle still standing, one window
glowing in its black expanse like a
square, bloody moon against a bloody
sky. It crumbled.

They turned away, and Cliff's arm
circled the girl he loved. Their lips met
and clung. . . . And the Ariel plowed
on through the frothing brine, bearing
them toward safety and forgetful-
ness. . . , Together.

Temples of Xantoos

By HOWELL CALHOUN

Celestial fantasies of deathless night.

Enraptured colonnades adorned with pearls,
Resplendent guardians of crimson light.

Expanse of darkness silently unfurls
Among colossal ruins on this shore,

That once was purled by Xantoos' rolling seas;
Nothing remains upon this barren core

Of Mars, but your palatial memories.

Your altars and magnificent black gods

Still flash beneath the sapphire torches' flames,

The fragrant ring of sacred flowers nods
Beneath the monstrous idols' gilded frames.

Your jeweled gates swing open on their bands

Of gold; within, a lurid shadow stands.

288 WEIRD TALES

K

itch-Burning

By MARY ELIZABETH COUNSELMAN

They burned a witch in Bingham Square

Last Friday afternoon.
The faggot-smoke was blacker than

The shadows on the moon;
The licking flames were strangely green

Like fox-fire on the fen . . .
And she who cursed the godly folk

Will never curse again.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square

Before the village gate.
A huswife raised a skinny hand

To damn her, tense with hate.
A huckster threw a jagged stone — *

Her pallid cheek ran red . . .
But there was something scornful in

The way she held her head.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square;

Her eyes were terror-wild.
She was a slight, a comely maid,

No taller than a child.
Tney bound her fast against the stake

And laughed to see her fear . . .
Her red lips muttered secret words

That no one dared to hear.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square — ■■

But ere she swooned with pain
And ere her bones were sodden ash

Beneath the sudden rain,
She set her mark upon that throng , , ,

For time can not erase
The echo of her anguished cries,

The memory of her face.

W.T.— 3

'*Hy curse upon you, Black Geoige." she cried.

Wit

ost Door

By DOROTHY QUICK

r An alluring but deadly horror out of past centuries menaced the life cf the

young American — a fascinating tale of a strange and eery lone

I HAVE often wondered whether I
would have urged Wrexler to come
with me if I had known what Rouge-
mont would do to him. I think — looking
back — that even if I could have
glimpsed the future, I would have acted
W. T.— 3

in the same way, and that I would have
brought him to Rougemont to fulfill his
destiny.

As the boat cut its swift way through
the waters on its journey to France, I had
no thought of this, Nor had Wrexler.
285

290

WEIRD TALES

He was happier than I had ever seen
him. He had never been abroad before,
and the boat was a source of wonder and
enjoyment to him.

I myself was full of an eager antici-
pation of happy months to come. It
hardly seemed possible that only a week
had elapsed since I received the cable
that had made such a change in my
fortunes:

Your father died yesterday. You are sole heir,
provided you comply with conditions of his will,
the principal one being that you spend six
months of each year at Rougemont. If satisfac-
tory, come at once.

It was signed by my father's lawyer.

I had no sorrow over my father's
passing, except a deep regret that we
could not have known the true relation-
ship of father and son. At the death of
my mother, my father had grown bitter
and refused to see the innocent cause of
her untimely passing. As a baby I had
been brought up in the lodge of Rouge-
mont, my father's magnificent chateau
near Vichy. When I reached the age of
four, I had been sent away to boarding-
school. After that, my life had been a
succession of schools; first in France, the
adopted land of my father, then England,
and finally St. Paul's in America.

In all justice to my parent, I must
admit he gave me every advantage except
the affection I would have cherished.
By his own wish, I had never seen him
in life; nor would I see him in death, for
a later cable advised me that the funeral
was over and his body already at rest in
the beautiful Gothic mausoleum he had
had built in his lifetime, after the man-
ner of the ancients.

He had left me everything with only
two injunctions, that a certain sum of
money be set aside to keep the chateau
always in its present condition and that
I should spend at least half my time in
it, and my children after me — a condi-

tion I was only too pleased to accept. AH
my life I had longed for a home.

I cabled at once that I would sail, A
return cable brought me the news that I
had unlimited funds to draw upon. It
was then that I urged Wrexler to come
with me.

Wrexler and I had been friends
since the day when two lonely boys
had been put by chance into the same
room at school. We were so utterly un-
like, it was perhaps the difference be-
tween us that held us together through
the years. At St. Paul's, and later at
Princeton, Gordon Wrexler had always
been at the head of his class, whereas I
inevitably tagged along at the bottom.
The contrast between us was expressed
not only in the color of our hair and
eyes, but also in our dispositions. My
greatest gift from fate was a sense of
humor, and I suppose it was this quality
of mine that particularly appealed to
Wrexler. It seems as though I was the
only one who could lift him out of the
despondency into which he often
plunged. As the years passed, and his
tendency to depression intensified, he
came to depend more and more upon me,
and we grew closer together.

Strangely enough, the whiteness of his
face and the gloom that exuded from
him did not detract from his good looks.
It only added to them. For the translu-
cence of his skin made the thick, black
hair that lay dose to his head all the
darker, while at the same time it brought
out the deep black of his eyes, and the
firm cut of his lips.

The night before we landed, we were
standing on deck, at the rail, looking over
the side straining our eyes for the first
glimpse of the lights of Cherbourg, and
Wrexler spoke of himself for the first
time since we had left New York.

"You know, Jim, for perhaps the only

THE LOST DOOR

291

time in my life I feel at peace, as though
something that I should have done long
ago has been at last accomplished."

He was so solemn that I laughed a
little. He stopped me suddenly: "It's
true — I've always felt an urge within me,
a blinding force pushing me toward
something that is waiting for me: where,
I do not know; what, I have no idea. For
the first time, it's gone — that nameless
urge that I knew not how to satisfy, and
I feel that the call's being answered."

With the usual inanity of people at a
loss for words, I said the first thing that
came into my mind: "Perhaps Rouge-
mont has been calling you."

"You've no idea what a relief it is,"
he continued, "not to feel constantly
pulled with no way of knowing toward
what, or how to go about answering the
summons. I have often thought that I
should take my life — that that was what
was meant " His voice trailed off.

This time I was not at a loss for
words. I started to read him a lecture
that would have done credit to Martin
Luther or John Knox. At the end of my
harangue Wrexler laughed, a rare thing
for him, and put his arm through mine.

"All that's gone now. Didn't I tell
you that at last in some strange way I am
at peace?"

Rougemont's towers were visible
- long before we reached the great
iron gates that had to be swung open to
let us pass. For miles the great edifice
dominated the landscape. The huge
building had a soft, reddish tinge, from
which I supposed it derived its name —
Red Mountain. It was a fairy-tale palace
perched on a mountain top. A great
thrill went through me as I realized that
this beautiful chateau was mine, and as
we drove through the gates, up the wind-
ing road, through my own forest, the
pride of possession swelled up in me and

for the first time I began to understand
why my father had never put his foot
outside the great gates and the high wall
that enclosed the acres that now belonged
to me.

As we drove on, up the winding, nar-
row road, over the drawbridge that
spanned the moat, into the courtyard, I
understood more and more. Here was
everything: beauty such as I had never
dreamed, forests stocked with game,
running brooks full of fish, a lake, and
farther off, a farm — I could glimpse its
thatched roofs — to supply our wants.
Rougemont was a world in itself.

The high carved door was swung open
as Wrexler and I got out of the car.
Monsieur de Carrier, my father's lawyer,
advanced to meet us, a friendly smile on
his Santa Claus countenance. I shook
hands, introduced Wrexler as "a very
good friend who is going to stay with
me."

Monsieur Carrier's face fell. Clearly
Wrexler's being with me was a disap-
pointment. Nevertheless, he greeted him
politely, as he ushered us in.

That moment Rougemont took me to
its heart and won me for its own.

Imagine Amboise, or any of the great
French chateaux, suddenly restored to
itself as it was in the days of the Medici,
and you have a small idea of Rougemont.
For we had stepped out of the present
into the past. Carrier, Wrexler and I
were anachronisms; everything else was
in keeping with the dead centuries. Even
the servants were in doublet and hose of
a sort of cerulean blue, with great slashes
puffed with crimson silk.

I think I gasped. At any rate, Mon-
sieur Carrier saw my astonishment. "It
is your father's will, my boy, He always
kept it so, and wore the costume of
former days, himself. He greatly ad-
mired the first Francis. In your rooms
you will find costumes prepared for you.

292

WEIRD TALES

For the last six months of his life, he
was making ready for his son." There
was an odd sort of pride in Carrier's
voice.

I remembered now that my father had
written for my measurements. I had
thought he meant to make me a present,
but when time passed and I heard
nothing, the incident had slipped from
my mind. I looked at Wrexler, expect-
ing to see some sign of amusement on
his face, but he stood quietly looking at
the tapestry that hung half-way up the
grand stairway. There was a dreamy,
far-away expression in his eyes.

"May I speak before your friend?"
Carrier asked.

I nodded. The servants had already
disappeared with our luggage. I threw
myself down on a long, low bench, and
Carrier sat opposite me.

"You understood the terms of your
father's will, of course," Carrier began,
"that you must live here six months,
but you did not know that you must live
here, as he did, in the past. If you do
not, then Rougemont goes to your
father's steward, with the same condi-
tions — to be kept always as it is; with
only a small sum set aside for you."

I said nothing. Driving along the road
from Paris, it would have seemed fan-
tastic, but here — under the spell of
Rougemont — it seemed as though any-
thing else would be impossible.

Carrier went on, "You will be Grand
Seigneur — Lord of the Manor, in
the old style. You may have your guests
if you like, but they too must conform
with the rules." Here he glanced at
Wrexler, who still stood as though he
were in a trance. "The other six months
you are free to do as you please, spend
what you like of the money not needed
for Rougemont — that is, // you want to
go anywhere else."

Evidently he had finished his speech.
At the time I did not recognize the
significance of his last words. "I am will-
ing to submit to the conditions; only" —
a sudden thought struck me — "I don't
want to lose all touch with the outside
world. Can I go to Vichy — to get papers
and so forth? I don't suppose they had
papers in Francis First's time."

Monsieur de Carrier smiled. "My dear
boy, your father didn't wish to make a
prisoner of you. You may go to Vichy
if you like. But you must not be away
from Rougemont more than twenty-four
consecutive hours during the six months
you are in residence.

"So far as the papers, etc., are con-
cerned, they will be at the lodge. There
is also a telephone, and your own clothes
will be kept there. After tonight,
nothing of 1935 must come within these
halls, but you are free to go to the lodge
any time you want to. You can get in
touch with me also, if you desire further
information, De Lacy, the steward, will
look out for you. He knows your father's
ways. Now permit me to congratulate
you and say au revoir, my young friend."

Monsieur de Carrier got up on his
stubby fat legs, made a little bow to
me, another to Wrexler which went
unheeded.

I too arose. "It will seem strange,
but I'll do my best."

"One other thing," Monsieur de Car-
rier was all of a sudden very grave. "In
two weeks' time you will be given a
key. It unlocks a casket you will find in
the library. In it you will find a message
from your father, Adieu, my boy, I wish
you well."

With a click of the heels and a friendly
smile, he was gone.

I turned to Wrexler. "What do you
think of it?" I asked.

Wrexler did not answer. He still
stood gazing up at the stairway. The

THE LOST DOOR

293

wide, marble steps curved upward. Along
the sides, the intricate carving was beau-
tiful in its lacy delicateness.

At that moment, however, I was
alarmed for my friend. His attitude was
rigid, and his eyes were glassy. I put my
hand on his shoulder. "Wrexler!"

My action galvanized him to life.
"Another minute and she would have
reached the last step! Now she is gone."

This was madness! There had been
no one there. I said as much.

Wrexler turned and faced me. "But
there was," he said eagerly, "the most
beautiful girl I have ever seen, all done
up in some old costume: great, wide
skirts, little waist, and a high lace collar.
She had bronze curls, great blue eyes and
the loveliest face! I saw her immediately
we came in. She looked at both of us,
but she smiled at me!"

I was in a quandary. Until now I had
not given the staircase more than a per-
functory glance. For all I knew, she
might have been one of the servants,
peeping to see her new master. To
Wrexler, impressionable, strange crea-
ture that he was, the one glance might
have so registered on his mind that he
kept on seeing her; for certainly she had
not been there when I looked. It seemed
best to make light of the whole matter.

"Anyway, she's gone now, At least I
can explain the costume. I take it you
didn't hear Carrier's announcements?"

Wrexler shook his head. I proceeded
to enlighten him.

Instead of teasing me about the strange
conditions my father's will had imposed
upon me, he was enthusiastic about the
idea. "It's the one period in history
that has always interested me! Jim,
we're in luck! Imagine stepping back
into Medici France for six months, shut-
ting out the world! Who knows but
that Catherine herself may have stayed
here, or Marguerite de .Valois — the

Marguerite of Marguerites! Beautiful,
but no more beautiful than that girl
on the stairs. I can hardly wait to see her
again."

I heartily hoped that he would see her,
and that she was not entirely a creature of
his imagination. If she was real, I too
was eager to meet her.
Wrexler interrupted my thoughts,
"I feel as though I had come home,"
he said. "I'm crazy to explore. Let's go
shed these ugly things and begin to really
live. Why, it's been this I've been wait-
ing for! If s lucky we're the same size."

Out of his irrelevance, I gathered the
trend of his thought. "I wonder
where we go," I began.

Almost as though he had heard my
words, a tall, commanding figure stepped
into the hall. He was attired richly in
damask of a lovely, soft blue with the
same slashes of crimson that the servant
livery had shown, but in this case of finer
material. He was a handsome man of
about thirty-four. His beard was pointed
and he had a small mustache. His long
legs were encased in silken hose and he
wore a dagger thrust through his belt.

"De Lacy, at your service, my lord,"
he announced as he made a deep bow.

I extended my hand, somewhat at a
loss to know how to greet my father's
sreward, who was clearly a man of some
importance and who, but for me, would
be owner of Rougemont.

Instead of shaking hands, he dropped
on one knee and kissed my hand — a pro-
ceeding which embarrassed me very
much.

On my motioning him to rise, he did
so with a lithe grace; "I suppose you
want to change your strange clothes, my
lord, and see your quarters?"

I nodded and introduced Wrexler. De
Lacy bowed, "Monsieur Wrexler would
like to be near you?" Then he added.

294

WEIRD TALES

"We have some twenty or thirty suites,
my lord."

Wrexler said he would prefer to be
close at hand, and together we followed
de Lacy up the marble stairway into a
new world,

Wrexler was at ease immediately in
his doublet and hose. The rich, em-
broidered garments seemed to suit him
as modern clothes never did. He looked
handsomer than ever. He also told me
that the costume of the Medici was
becoming to me, and truly when I caught
a glimpse of myself mirrored in the pond
— for the chateau did not possess a
large mirror— I was not ill pleased with
the result. But, by the end of the week,
I still felt strange in my new attire,
whereas Wrexler from the beginning
wore his as if to the manor born.

But I anticipate. That first night we
donned two of the outfits which the valet
whom de Lacy introduced to me had put
out. Our own clothes disappeared, and
much to my annoyance, with them my
cigarettes.

WE ate dinner in state, upon a raised
dais at one end of a great hall.
At either side below us were long, nar-
row tables filled with people. Dressed
also in keeping with the period, they
made a wonderful picture and comprised,
I supposed, my court or retinue. De Lacy
presented me to them with a nourish,
and they all filed by and kissed my hand,
then went to their places. -

When Wrexler and I were seated,
they too sat down. When I began to
talk, they filled the hall with gay chat-
tering. From a minstrel gallery at the
other end of the. room came soft strains
of music.

De Lacy stood behind me pouring
my wine. One thing I noticed was that
in the whole room — and there must have
b«en two hundred people at least — there

were no older men or women. In fact,
de Lacy was the oldest of the lot; the
others ranged from about sixteen to
thirty.

"How did my father get all these
people together?" I asked de Lacy,

"Most of them, my lord, were born
at Rougemont. Still others were adopted
and brought here almost as soon as they
were born. None of us has ever been
outside Rougemont gates." De Lacy was
quite matter-of-fact as he made his
statement.

Wrexler was searching the hall with
his eyes, as he listened to my steward.

"And you?" I looked at de Lacy.

"I, too, my lord, know nothing of
your outside world, nor do I want to.
Why should I, who am happy here? My
family live down at the farm, but his
Highness, your father, became interested
in me. He brought me into the chateau,
had me educated, and looked after me,
himself. Eventually he made me steward
of Rougemont. It is a great honor he
conferred upon me and I shall do my
best to help you, my lord,"

Of a sudden I saw what my father's
life-work had been: to rear a court to
people Rougemont, My father had been
twenty-five at my mother's death. He had
died at fifty-eight. He had had thirty-
three years to make his dream come true.

"Where are the parents of the ones
who were born at Rougemont?"

"At their own places, or the farms,
my lord. Rougemont has over a thousand
acres and several manors upon it, where
people whom his Highness your father
advanced over others, live. They all serve
their ruler in some way, in return for
what is given them. Only the people of
the lodge are in touch with the Outside,
which we have been taught to look upon
with scorn. Here we have everything,
and to be taken to the chateau itself is
the ambition of everyone oq the estate,"

THE tOST DOOR

29J

I saw it all; not, of course, every in-
tricacy of the elaborate system my father
had evolved, but at least a glimmer of
the truth. And I marveled at the charac-
ter of a man who had taken children out
of the world to make his own world and
then had the patience to wait for them to
grow up; to form his court — the court he
planned for me. Yes, in my egotism I
thought it was for me! Two weeks were
to pass before I learned what his real
reason had been.

Into my reflections, Wrexler broke
abruptly, "She is not here. Ask de Lacy
about her; her beauty haunts me. Already
I am in love with her."

I was not surprized, Nothing, I felt,
could at this point surprize me, so much
had happened in the last few hours. If
my father had arisen from the floor like
Hamlet's ghost, I would have greeted
him quite casually,

"Is there a young girl here with
bronze curls and blue eyes?" I asked
obediently.

A shadow crossed de Lacy's handsome
face. For the first time he hesitated.
"There is no one here that answers that
description. May I ask why you "

"My friend saw her on the stairway."

I caught a murmur from de Lacy's
lips, "So soon!" it sounded like, but be-
fore I could question further, he said
aloud, "I have leave to depart and join
my lady?" And before I could answer,
he bowed himself away to take a seat
at one of the tables below,

Wrexler looked over his wine goblet.
"The man lied. I saw recognition of the
description in his eyes."

"We'll get the truth out of him later,"
I countered. "Isn't it fine to actually eat
chicken with your fingers, and not feel
you are committing a social error!"

We did not get any information out
of de Lacy later. To Wrexler's in-
sistent questionings he was at first non-
committal, and after a bit, downright
curt. I poured oil on the troubled waters
by suggesting that as it was late, we
would wait until morning to see the
library and the left wing of the chateau.

With a smile of relief, de Lacy ushered
us to our chambers. My retiring was a
kind of ceremony. It amused me, but I
had a nagging little thought in the back
of my mind that all this etiquette would
become boring after a while.

As the last man bowed himself out
of my room, de Lacy bent low. "My
lord, there are guards at your door. You
have only to call if you require anything."

I thanked him once more. Greatly to
my embarrassment, he again kissed my
hand. "Your servant to the death!" he
cried, and drew the curtains about my
high-canopied bed.

I knew that outside the red damask,
two huge candles were burning, but the
curtain shut out their light and I was
smothered in darkness. I made a mental
note that I must arrange somehow for
air in my room. The French idea of
banishing night air did not coincide with
my American habits. Tonight I was too
weary to get up and attend to it. My
thoughts were racing back and forth
among the strange events of the day, but
before I could focus them into any kind
of order, sleep descended upon me.

I had a strange dream. In it, the most
beautiful woman I had ever seen came
and parted the red damask curtains.
Framed against the dark oak panels of
my room, she stood looking down upon
me. Her hair was red gold, and her
eyes had all the sapphire tints of the
world stored in their depths. Her pale,
white face was oval in shape and bal-
anced perfectly upon a slender neck. Her

296

WEIRD TALES

lips were sweetly curved and her nose
delicately shaped. As she bent over me,
I could see the rounded curve of her
bosom. One slim hand reached out and
touched my cheek. It was like the touch
of a falling rose petal.

In my dream I lay asleep, yet I was
conscious of this lovely creature. I
watched her through closed eyelids, and
held my breath, hoping she would kiss
me. It seemed as though I had never
desired anything so much.

A half-smile hovered on her lips,
but her eyes told me nothing. She
leaned lower. A faint perfume per-
vaded my senses, and then I felt her lips
upon my forehead. A great cold swept
over me at her touch — swept me down,
down into blackness, and I knew no

When I awoke, the sun was pour-
ing through the opened curtains.
I reached for a cigarette — my first
conscious thought upon awakening — and
not finding my case under the pillow,
suddenly realized my new surroundings.
At the same time, I remembered my
dream. "Wrexler and his talk of a red-
haired beauty is responsible for that,"
I thought as I clapped my hands.

De Lacy came in so quickly I knew
he must have been waiting outside the
door. He started when he saw the curtain
of my bed had been opened. "Did you
not pull them?" I asked.

He shook his head, I said no more,
and the ceremony of my arising began.

When I had bathed in a great sunken
tub — fortunately Diana de Poictiers had
had her daily bath in the far-off time —
I sought Wrexler.

Together we breakfasted, and then I
announced to de Lacy that we wished to
inspect the rest of the chateau. He led
us to the left wing, and took us through
suite after suite, Beautifully furnished,

the chateau was a veritable treasure house.
An antiquarian would have gone mad
with delight.

I noticed that de Lacy had avoided two
heavily built doors opposite the ballroom.
When we had returned from our tour, I
stopped before them, "And here?" I
asked.

"The picture gallery, my lord," he
responded unwillingly, and swung the
doors open. There was an unhappy ex-
pression on his face.

The room was long and narrow, and
the walls except for the windows were
lined with portraits. We walked slowly
down the length of the room, looking
at the portraits of a dead and gone race.

"The former owners of the chateau?'*
I asked. De Lacy nodded.

Suddenly I looked at the part of the
room facing the door which he had
entered. At first we had been too far
away to distinguish anything about it
except that there was only one large
painting hanging in the center. Now
that I was nearer, I could see the paint-
ing, and I caught my breath in astonish-
ment; for there was the portrait of the
lady of my dream, smiling down on me.

Wrexler caught my arm, "That's the
girl — the one I saw on the stairs."

"That is the portrait of Helene,
Mademoiselle d'Harcourt, daughter of
the Lord of Harcourt, who owned this
chateau," de Lacy's voice broke in.

Wrexler and I exclaimed simul-
taneously, "But I " and "She is "

De Lacy looked at us strangely. "It is
from her that the chateau got its new
name Rougemont — Red Mountain. Be-
fore that, it was called Hotel d'Harcourt.
Mademoiselle Helene was very beautiful,
as you can see, Messieurs, and she had
many suitors. At last, from among them,
she chose an English lord. One of the
discarded lovers, Black George — le
Georges Noir — vowed that she should

THE LOST DOOR

297

not belong to the Englishman, or ever
leave Rougemont.

"She laughed, Mademoiselle Helene,
and her father, the Lord d'Harcourt,
laughed too, for he had many men at arms
and was rich and powerful. Black George
did not laugh, he only set his lips grimly.
The wedding day came and the beautiful
Helene married the English lord in the
great hall, but just as he took her in his
arms for the nuptial kiss, there arose a
great noise outside. It was Black George
attacking the chateau.

'The English lord, with Helene's kiss
warm upon his lips, went forth to battle.
There was a fight such as these peaceful
lands had never seen, and the mountain
ran red with blood. Black George was
the victor. He slew the Englishman, he
slew the Lord of Harcourt, and his men
hacked to pieces the defenders of the
chateau.

"Black George, followed by his men,
their swords red with blood, came into
the great hall where Helene d'Harcourt
sat on the throne, her face whiter than
her wedding dress. Black George filing
her lover's body at her feet, and the
■women of the household who were
crouched about the throne cried aloud
with terror. The fair Helene did not cry,
nor did she moan; she only looked
straight at Black George, and there was
that in her gaze that silenced everyone
in the great hall; even Black George
stepped back a pace.

"Then Helene d'Harcourt rose and
went down to her love, the English lord
who for a brief moment had been her
husband. She knelt beside him and
kissed his cold lips; then she took her
wedding veil and laid it over his body.

"All the while there was silence in
the great hall, while men and women
watched the slim girl say farewell to the
man she loved. They watched almost as
though they were under a spell. But as

the veil fell into place, Black George
laughed a long laugh that rang through
the room; then he turned to his followers,
and cried loudly, 'The women are yours
— take them as you will, all but that one
who belongs to me.' He gestured toward
Helene and laughed again.

"Helene d'Harcourt stood erect and
pointed her slender hand at Black
George. 'Wait,' she cried, and there was
a quality in her voice that made her
listeners tremble. 'I shall belong to no
one until my lover comes for me, and
till he comes, wo to you, Black George,
who are well named! Wo to you and
to all men, for I curse you with a mighty
curse, the curse of a broken heart. And
I curse all men for their black and bitter
deeds. Year after year, century after cen-
tury, I will take my vengeance for the
wrongs I have suffered, and no man shall
be free until my lover comes again and
we find bliss together.'

"And while the eyes of the whole hall
were riveted upon her, she plunged the
dagger she had taken from her lover's
belt into her heart. For a second she
stood swaying; then she crumpled and
fell beside the English lord.

"Black George caught her and held
her in his arms. 'My curse upon you,
Black George!* she cried.

"Black George could also curse —
'Never shall you leave Rougemont to
find your lover, and never shall he come,

until ' and then his voice died away

as her head fell backward over his arm.
The fair Helene was beyond his reach.

"For a minute more the people in the
great hall were paralyzed by the force
of the terrible words that they had
heard, but with the girl's death they were
released from the spell and a fury swept
over the men. They rushed upon the
women and dragged them forth. Black
George took Helene's body and carried
it away, but where he buried her no one

298

WEIRD TALES

knew, nor could any discover; for the
next day he was found in the great hall
raving mad, and the people said that
Helene's curse was a potent one, that al-
ready it had wreaked vengeance on
the one who had wronged her most.

"From that day, the chateau was
called Rougemont. The d'Harcourts were
all dead and the place fell into other
hands. Then there grew up the rumor
that the chateau was haunted, that the
fair Helene roamed through its halls,
cut off from her lover, and doomed to
stay within these walls by Black George's
curse."

DE lacy silent, Wrexler and I looked
at the portrait. My own feelings
were in a turmoil. It had been a ghost's
lips that had touched me last night; yet
surely no ghosts could have been so
beautiful or seemed so real.

Wrexler turned to me, "It would be
the curse that has always been upon me
that when I fell in love it would be with
a ghost!" His eyes were vivid, shining
brightly in his pale face. "I knew when
I saw her on the stairway that I loved
her."

"There is a rumor," said de Lacy,
"that the man who sees the fair Helene
will meet with some misadventure, unless
she gives him a kiss. Then he is pro-
tected from her wrath."

I started. Wrexler smiled, "She kissed
me with her eyes. I am not afraid."

"The fair Helene makes men suffer
to make up for the wrong Black George
did her. For years she has not been seen
at Rougemont. Last night when you
described her, I was afraid. My lord,"
de Lacy turned to me, "send your friend
away. If she only looked at him and
smiled, there is a grave and deadly
danger for him, more deadly because it
may be unexplainable. Men upon whom

the fair Helene has smiled have met
strange deaths."

As Wrexler looked up at the portrait,
an inward light illumined his coun-
tenance. "I am not afraid," he repeated.

"There are many deaths. There is the
death of the spirit as well as that of the
body. I beg you to go while there is
time, friend of my lord." There was real
feeling in de Lacy's voice.

I too felt afraid for Wrexler. The
strange, unworldly feeling he had always
had, the pulling toward something he
knew not what, made me doubly fearful.
Had the fair Helene been calling him
all this time, across the world? For my-
self I had no fear. She had kissed me,
and besides, even death at her hands
would have been preferable to never
seeing her again. In these last few
minutes I had realized that I too was
in love with Helene, that I could hardly
wait for the night, in hopes that she
might visit me again.

Resolutely I put my own feelings in
the background, for at the moment
Wrexler was of paramount importance.
If there was anything in de Lacy's story
■ — and from my own experience I was
sure there was — Wrexler was in danger.
I turned to him. "If anything happened
to you, I could never forgive myself.
Perhaps you'd better go. I could arrange
a trip for you, and later — meet you."

Somehow de Lacy seemed one of us.
I had no hesitancy in speaking before
him. He seemed a part of my new life.
With the strange suddenness that comes
on rare occasions, we were already
friends.

Wrexler looked at me, then back at the
portrait. Helene d'Harcourt, her red
hair gleaming, smiled down upon us.
Before he spoke, I knew what he would
say, because in his place I would have
said the same, "Unless you kick me out,
I want to stay,"

THE LOST DOOR

299

I put my hand on Wrexler's shoulder.
*'So be it. Come along, let's see the
library, then we'll know all of Rouge-
mont. We've seen everything else."

Wrenching his eyes away from the
portrait, Wrexler followed us.

The library was beautiful, with
paneled walls that had rows and rows
of books sunk in their depths. There
was a long, oaken table, and on the center
of it stood a carved, gilded box, the
casket which held my father's letter. I
wished then that I could read it at once.
I wish now that I could have, but per-
haps it is better that I did not; at least
things moved as the fates ordained, and
the responsibility for what occurred was
jiot mine.

The next three days were quiet,
happy ones. Nothing occurred. I
had no ghostly visitant and Wrexler
saw nothing of Helene. Under de Lacy's
expert guidance, we rode over the estate,
hunted with falcons, a pleasing sport
which we both took to our hearts ;
mingled with my court, found the people
charming and highly cultivated. We took
lessons in the old dances, visited the
manor houses. It was all very gay and
amusing, and I had no longing for the
outside world. I did not even go down
to the lodge for news.

There were many details of the estate
management that I had to go into with
de Lacy. We spent several hours each
morning going over the affairs of Rouge-
mont. It was virtually a small kingdom,
and everything was referred to me.

Necessarily, the time I spent with de
Lacy on such matters, Wrexler was alone.
He had changed a great deal since we
had come to Rougemont. He had come
alive, and he threw himself into every-
thing with a curious intensity. He was
like a person who has been very ill, who
suddenly finding himself better and

fearing it is only temporary, clutches life
with both hands. He devoted long hours
to reading the records of the d'Harcourts,
until he knew the family history as well
as his own.

I did not mention Helene, although
there was seldom a moment when she
was out of my thoughts. I found myself
watching for her day and night, and I
caught the same tension in Wrexler's
eyes as he searched the shadows.

The third night she came again, not
to me, but to Wrexler; and although he
was my friend, I almost hated him be-
cause he had seen her and I had not. He
told me next morning as we walked
along the lake shore.

"Jim," he said suddenly, "I saw her
last night. She came to my room. She
drew aside the curtains of the bed, and
leaned over me. I can't describe my
sensations. It was almost as though life
were suspended in space — like a bridge
over a timeless sea."

I had nothing to say. I knew so well
how he felt.

"She leaned closer and closer to me,"
Wrexler went on; "then she smiled, and
before I could find my breath to speak,
she was gone. This is the second time
she has smiled at me. I felt a nameless
fear, as though there was a threatening
quality in those red lips. She looked at
me as though I might have been Black
George himself."

In that moment, all my envy was
swept away by anxiety for my friend.
Indeed, I wished she had kissed him, for
then he would have been safe, I started
to speak, to beg Wrexler to leave Rouge-
mont, but before the words could leave
my mouth, I saw her. She was standing
in the path some distance away, directly
in line with my eyes, and she was shaking
her head impressively.

I knew instantly what she meant. I
was not to send Wrexler away, He

300

.WEIRD TALES

could not see her, because at the moment
he was facing me, his hand on my arm.
His fingers touching me were not quite
steady. It brought me back to reality.
"Wrexler," I cried, "you — could leave
Rougemont."

Her eyes clouded with anger. She
looked at me reproachfully, command-
ingly. As though I were dreaming, I
heard my own voice, "I don't want you
to go, I would be lonely without you.
Perhaps there is no danger."

Wrexler looked at me curiously.
'"There is risk, I know that, but I do not
care. I am like a man who has eaten a
strange and terrible drug, who knows
the danger, but can not resist it, I will
stay."

Beyond him Helene smiled a satisfied
smile, as she looked at Wrexler' s broad
back. It made me feel afraid. Then sud-
denly her gaze swept to me, and the
smile changed into a languorous one that
promised all things. My heart beat faster,
and I forgot my fear,

Wrexler moved restlessly, turning so
that we were side by side. Even in that
second Helene had vanished — how, I do
not know. One minute she was there,
the next she was not.

We walked along slowly. Finally
Wrexler spoke, "No matter what hap-
pens, and I mean that widely, my friend,
you are not to regret. For a little time
I have been happy. I have come alive.
I have loved, even though the woman
that I love is a wraith* I have felt a
sensation I thought never to feel. If I
could hold her in my arms and press my
lips to hers, I would count the world well
lost."

I could say nothing, because — God
pity me! — I knew just how he felt.

The days slipped away quickly, I
did not see Helene again, but Wrex-
ler did. Almost every da^ he met her

in the rose garden, where they spent
long hours.

He told me that she was always elusive,
but at the same time promising that some
day she would be kinder. He said her
voice was like golden honey and that
without her he could not face life.

Once I saw them myself, as I came
from an interview with de Lacy. As I
approached the rose garden through an
opening in the arches, I saw them sitting
side by side on the marble bench, and of
the two, Helene looked the more earthly.
For Wrexler had grown paler and more
ethereal every day. His eyes were
luminous as he looked at her adoringly.

She saw me first, and her lips curved
sweetly. She rose in a leisurely fashion,
turned her back to me and dropped a low
curtsy to Wrexler; then while I still
watched, she extended one slender hand
to him. He bent over it, his lips touched
its soft whiteness. A little laugh like
the tinkle of silver bells swept through
the garden; then she was gone.

Wrexler stood like a man in a trance.
I came quickly forward. "You are play-
ing with fire!" I cried.

Wrexler roused. "You saw?"

I nodded.

"Have you ever seen anything mora
beautiful, more lovely?"

I shook my head.

"I'm not afraid any more. She has
promised me -"

But what Helene had promised I was
not to know, for Wrexler's mouth shut
with a snap. When I pressed him, he
shook his head. Finally he said, carefully
choosing his words with a reluctance that
was strange to him:

"To me is to be granted something
beyond the knowledge of mortal man,
I can tell you no more, but some day
you will know," There was an expres-
sion on his face that transcended earth.

The next night I spoke to de Lacg

THE LOST DOOR

301

and told him my fears. Wrexler was
spending more and more time in the
rose garden. I hardly saw him, and he
would not discuss anything with me.
Even at the stately, elegantly served
meals, he barely spoke. He always
seemed to be listening, waiting.

De Lacy shared my fears, but he sug-
gested nothing to help. "He has been
marked, my lord," he said gravely. "We
can only pray. But even in prayers
there is no refuge, for Helene is beyond
such things."

"Surely " I began to remonstrate.

"The power of evil is as strong as
the power of good, or at least there is
little between them. Helene herself is
bound fast by hate of Black George."

Curses live, I knew that — witness the
lasting quality of the curses and spells
of the Egyptian priests. But Helene was
not evil. I said as much.

De Lacy shook his head. "She is cut
off from her lover. She does not feel
kindly toward men. Remember she
promised vengeance century after cen-
tury, that day in the great hall."

That night in the silence of my cham-
ber I called her name. "Helene! Helene!"
I flung my agonized summons into the
night, but there was no answer.

I went over in my mind the tales de
Lacy had told me of the havoc she had
caused; how one man had cast himself
down from the highest turret, crying her
name; how another had been found
dead in the rose garden, horror frozen
on his face. There were still others who
had looked upon her, and death or
madness came as the result.

The more I thought of these tales of
terror, the more I feared for Wrexler.
At last I could stand no more. I thrust
my arms into the rich velvet robe that
had taken the place of my bath gown,
and went to Wrexler's room. The guards
stood back to let me pass.

I did not mean to wake him, but some
inner foreboding made me feel I
must know that he was safe.

As 1 drew aside the curtains of his
bed, 1 could not entirely stifle the cry
that came to my lips, for the bed was
empty. But upon the pillow lay a small,
white rose. It was the kind they use in
funeral wreaths in France, My heart
almost stopped beating.

The rose garden! — or perhaps the
library. A more normal thought struck
me. Wrexler might have wanted to read.
I rushed into the hall, to find de Lacy
waiting for me, summoned by the guards.
He held a silver candle-stick in which a
tall, white candle burned.

"The library!" I gasped. That was
nearest, we should try it first. De Lacy
knew my meaning. He had instantly
grasped the situation and his face was
white and tense.

Together we descended the curving
stairway. Together we reached the li-
brary. Then, motioning de Lacy behind
me, I swung open the door.

The room was brightly illuminated,
although not one of the candles had
been lit In the middle of it stood
Wrexler, with Helene in his arms. Theit
lips were close-locked.

It was a picture that an artist would
have delighted to paint: the stiff, crim-
son skirts of Helene d'Harcourt's gown
stood wide on either side, and Wrexler's
blue doublet and hose against them was
in bold relief. His long over-sleeves
edged with fur hung gracefully.

I could not speak. This mating of man
with ghost was almost more than my
poor mortal brain could bear, yet with
every atom of my being I wished that I
could have been in Wrexler's place. I
remembered the one chaste kiss I had had
from her, and I almost fainted at the
thought of possessing those lips for my
own, as Wrexler was doing. Strangely

302

WEIRD TALES

enough, mingling with this emotion was
another — a feeling of fear and anxiety
for my friend. Cold horror that froze
my blood kept me rooted to the spot.

Behind me de Lacy had fallen to his
knees. I could hear him repeating the
Latin words of a prayer. All at once I
saw where the light was coming from.
The entire north wall, ordinarily lined
with books, had gone. In its stead was
a stone wall, and in the center of the
wall was a low-hung Gothic door, carved
and ornate. It was standing open, and
beyond was a pale, luminous yellow mist.
I could see nothing of what else was be-
yond the door, for the yellow haze filled
the entire space. It was like a golden
fog, and its radiance lighted the library
with a strange, unearthly glow. Its
luminosity glowed upon Helene and
Wrexler like a spotlight.

For a moment I thought Rougemont,
de Lacy, everything of the past weeks,
must have been a dream and that I was
watching a cinema of past days. All at
once, before my astonished eyes Helene
gently drew her lips away from Wrex-
ler's. She slipped from his arms and
extended her hands to him. "Come," I
heard her say.

Wrexler had been right: her voice was
like golden honey. It was like the music
of willow trees in early spring. Wrexler
grasped her hands. For the first time I
saw his face. Joy transfigured it, such
joy as I have never seen before, and never
shall see again.

Helene moved backward, slowly but
surely, drawing him toward the little
Gothic door that stood open. With her
soft lips half parted, she whispered,
"Come."

"Wrexler," I cried suddenly.

He did not hear me. As he looked
into her eyes, he might have been a bird
charmed by a snake. Nothing could
break through the spell that bound him.

They were nearer the door. EacH
second brought them closer to it. Now
Helene was on the other side. The
golden mist concentrated upon her, until
she looked like a goddess in its eery light.

"Wrexler! Wrexler!" The words tore
through my throat.

Wrexler stepped over the threshold.
Through the golden mist I saw him
clasp Helene in his arms again. I saw her
smile triumphantly at me, as she raised
her lips to his. There was something in
her eyes that filled me with horror.

The mist swirled about them until I
could barely discover the outlines of
their figures through its gleaming haze.
Then the door swung slowly shut.

I awoke to feverish activity. "Wrexler!
Wrexler!" I shouted and rushed forward
to the door.

I grasped the iron ring that hung in
its center. I pulled on it with all my
might. When I found that it resisted all
my efforts I began beating against the
door itself. Presently I felt myself being
pulled away.

"There is no use, my lord," de Lacy's
voice was saying. "The door is gone."

"Gone!" I ejaculated, and even as I
spoke I saw what he meant. The north
wall of the library was lined with books
as it always had been. I had been beat-
ing upon them impotently.

I looked down at my hands; the
knuckles were raw and bleeding, just as
they would have been from pounding on
a heavily carved wooden door. De Lacy
caught my meaning. "The door was
there, my lord. It was the lost door —
the door behind which Black George
buried Helene d'Harcourt. It had been
lost for centuries."

I sank into a chair, weakly, for now the
fact that I had lost Wrexler, my friend,
was paramount. "I will tear down the
walls until I find it."

"That has been done, my lord, and it

THE LOST DOOR

30$

has never been found. It will never be
found again. Only for a brief moment
you and I have been granted a glimpse
of something we can not understand."

"And Wrexler " I groaned.

"He was happy," de Lacy comforted.
"No matter what happened after, he has
had happiness such as I have never seen
before."

My head pitched forward and I knew
no more.

Three days later, I was escorted to
the library by de Lacy, to whom
since Wrexler's loss I was more devoted
than ever. With great ceremony I was
given the key to the gilded casket, then
left alone.

Seated in the great chair before the
oaken table, I unlocked the casket. It
contained many pages closely written in
my father's hand. In them were instruc-
tions as to my future conduct, my care of
Rougemont, what he had done and what
he expected me to do. But the lines that
interested me most were these:

"/ bought Rougemont for your mother,
shortly after your birth, because when
riding through this country, she saw and
loved it. It was a purchase that cost me
dear. For Rougemont held a curse and
an avenging spirit in the form of a beau-
tiful young girl who could not hear to
see others' happiness. So my wife died.

"Two months after your mother's
'death, I first saw la belle Helene. We
fought a long battle, she and I, but I
was strong, my son, because I loved
your mother. No other woman's charms
could lure me to my doom. Finally I
made a bargain with a ghost,

"She hated modern things and longed
for Rougemont to be great again, I
promised to restore the chateau to its
former splendor, to make it just as H.

had been in her days, and in return she
promised immunity to me, and after-
ward to you, and to all my court when
1 should have established it.

"1 restored Rougemont. 1 repeopled
it. With her help and advice, I have
made it as it was in her own day.

"She showed me the hidden treasure
vaults of the d'Harcourts so that I would
have enough money to purchase the
things she wanted.

"She too has kept her bargain, for
I and my court have lived happily here
unmolested. Only when an outsider
came or someone disobeyed or longed
for the outside world, has she wreaked
vengeance.

"She has sworn to give you the kiss
that promises immunity, the night you
come. Only, beware, my son, whom you
bring here from the world you know,
and beware of the lovely Helene, Old
man as I am, devoted to your mother's
memory as I am, she can still make my
'pulses leap.

"Above all things, if she shows you the
Lost Door, do not be tempted to cross
its threshold, for that way, unless you are
the reincarnation of the Englishman,
annihilation lies."

There was more, pages more, of other
matters, but I left them for another day.
Alone there in the library, I let my eyes
wander to where the little Gothic door
had been.

Had Wrexler been the Englishman
come back to earth to claim his bride?
Could that account for the strange, un-
satisfied longings he had always had, his
unearthly feelings, his unlikeness to other
people? Or was he Black George, lured
back to Rougemont for Helene's ven-
geance? I hope for his sake that was not
the explanation; that he and Helene

304

WEIRD TALES

would find bliss waiting for them behind
the Lost Door and I would never see
Helene again.

The days pass. I do what my father
set out for me to do. I keep his bargain

with the ghost of the fair Helene. I
never leave Rougemont. I have no
desire to, for I am always hoping that
some day I shall again find the Lost
Door.

oom of the House
of Duryea

By EARL PEIRCE, JR.

r A powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thing that happened
in a lone house in the Maine woods

A RTHUR DURYEA, a young, hand-
/% some man, came to meet his
■ father for the first time in

twenty years. As he strode into the
hotel lobby — long strides which had the
spring of elastic in them — idle eyes lifted
to appraise him, for he was an impres-
sive figure, somehow grim with exal-
tation.

The desk clerk looked up with his
habitual smile of expectation; how-do-
you-do-Mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers
strayed to the green fountain pen which
stood in a holder on the desk.

Arthur Duryea cleared his throat, but
still his voice was clogged and unsteady.
To the clerk he said:

"I'm looking for my father, Doctor
Henry Duryea. I understand he is
registered here. He has recently arrived
from Paris."

The clerk lowered his glance to a list
of names. "Doctor Duryea is in suite 600,
sixth floor," He looked up, his eyebrows

arched questioningly. "Are you staying
too, sir, Mr. Duryea?"

Arthur took the pen and scribbled his
name rapidly. Without a further word,
neglecting even to get his key and own
room number, he turned and walked to
the elevators. Not until he reached his
father's suite on the sixth floor did he
make an audible noise, and this was a
mere sigh which fell from his lips like
a prayer.

The man who opened the door was
unusually tall, his slender frame clothed
in tight-fitting black. He hardly dared
to smile. His clean-shaven face was pale,
an almost livid whiteness against the
sparkle in his eyes. His jaw had a bluish
luster.

"Arthur!" The word was scarcely a
whisper. It seemed choked up quietly,
as if it had been repeated time and again
on his thin lips.

Arthur Duryea felt the kindliness of
W.T.— 8

DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF DURYEA

305

those eyes go through him, and then he
was in his father's embrace.

Later, when these two grown men had
regained their outer calm, they closed the
door and went into the drawing-room.
The elder Duryea held out a humidor
of fine cigars, and his hand shook so
hard when he held the match that his son
was forced to cup his own hands about
the flame. They both had tears in their
eyes, but their eyes were smiling.

Henry Duryea placed a hand on his
son's shoulder. "This is the happiest day

of my life," he said. "You can never
know how much I have longed for this
moment."

Arthur, looking into that glance,
realized, with growing pride, that he had
loved his father all his life, despite any
of those things which had been cursed
against him. He sat down on the edge
of a chair.

"I — I don't know how to act," he
confessed. "You surprize me, Dad.
You're so different from what I had
expected,"

"He lay like o waxen figure tied to his bed.'*

W, T.— 4

306

WEIR D TALES

A cloud came over Doctor Duryea's
features. "What did you expect, Arthur?"
he demanded quickly. "An evil eye? A
shaven head and knotted jowls?"

"Please, Dad — no!" Arthur's words
clipped short. "I don't think I ever
really visualized you. I knew you would
be a splendid man. But I thought you'd
look older, more like a man who has
really suffered."

"I have suffered, more than I can ever
describe. But seeing you again, and the
prospect of spending the rest of my life
with you, has more than compensated
for my sorrows. Even during the twenty
years we were apart I found an ironic joy
in learning of your progress in college,
and in your American game of football."

"Then you've been following my
work?"

"Yes, Arthur; I've received monthly
reports ever since you left me. From my
study in Paris I've been really close to
you, working out your problems as if
they were my own. And now that the
twenty years are completed, the ban
which kept us apart \s lifted for ever.
From now on, son, we shall be the closest
of companions — unless your Aunt Ce-
cilia has succeeded in her terrible

The mention of that name caused an
unfamiliar chill to come between the
two men. It stood for something, in each
of them, which gnawed their minds like
a malignancy. But to the younger Duryea,
in his intense effort to forget the awful
past, her name as well as her madness
must be forgotten.

He had no wish to carry on this sub-
ject of conversation, for it betrayed an
internal weakness which he hated. With
forced determination, and a ludicrous
lift of his eyebrows, he said,

"Cecilia is dead, and her silly super-
stition is dead also. From now on, Dad,

we're going to enjoy life as we should.
Bygones are really bygones in this case."

Doctor Duryea closed his eyes slowly,
as though an exquisite pain had gone
through him.

"Then you have no indignation?" he
questioned. "You have none of your
aunt's hatred?"

* 'Indignation? Hatred?' ' Arthur
laughed aloud. "Ever since I was twelve
years old I have disbelieved Cecilia's
stories. I have known that those horrible
things were impossible, that they be-
longed to the ancient category of myth-
ology and tradition. How, then, can I
be indignant, and how can I hate you?
How can I do anything but recognize
Cecilia for what she was — a mean, frus-
trated woman, cursed with an insane
grudge against you and your family? I
tell you, Dad, that nothing she has ever
said can possibly come between us again."

Henry Duryea nodded his head. His
lips were tight together, and the muscles
in his throat held back a cry. In that
same soft tone of defense he spoke
further, doubting words.

"Are you so sure of your subconscious
mind, Arthur? Can you be so certain
that you are free from all suspicion,
however vague? Is there not a lingering
premonition — a premonition which
warns of peril?"

"No, Dad — no!" Arthur shot to his
feet. "I don't believe it. I've never
believed ir. I know, as any sane man
would know, that you are neither a vam-
pire nor a murderer. You know it, too;
and Cecilia knew it, only she was mad.

"That family rot is dispelled, Father.
This is a civilized century. Belief in vam-
pirism is sheer lunacy. Wh-why, it's too
absurd even to think about!"

"You have the enthusiasm of youth,"
said his father, in a rather tired voice.
"But have you not heard the legend?"

Arthur stepped back instinctively. He

DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF DURYM

307

moistened his lips, for their dryness
might crack them. "The — legend?"

He said the word in a curious hush of
awed softness, as he had heard his Aunt
Cecilia say it many times before.

"That awful legend that you "

"That I eat my children?"

"Oh, God, Father!" Arthur went to
his knees as a cry burst through his lips.
"Dad, that— that's ghastly! We must
forget Cecilia's ravings."

"You are affected, then?" asked Doctor
Duryea bitterly.

"Affected? Certainly I'm affected,
but only as I should be at such an accusa-
tion. Cecilia was mad, I tell you. Those
books she showed me years ago, and
those folk-tales of vampires and ghouls —
they burned into my infantile mind like
acid. They haunted me day and night
in my youth, and caused me to hate you
worse than death itself.

"But in Heaven's name, Father, I've
outgrown those things as I have out-
grown my clothes. I'm a man now; do
you understand that? A man, with a
man's sense of logic."
■ "Yes, I understand." Henry Duryea
threw his cigar into the fireplace, and
piaced a hand on his son's shoulder.

"We shall forget Cecilia," he said. "As
I told you in my letter, I have rented a
lodge in Maine where we can go to be
alone for the rest of the summer. We'll
get in some fishing and hiking and per-
haps some hunting. But first, Arthur, I
must be sure in my own mind that you
are sure in yours. I must be sure you
won't bar your door against me at night,
and sleep with a loaded revolver at your
elbow. I must be sure that you're not
afraid of going up there alone with me,
and dying "

His voice ended abruptly, as if an age-
Jong dread had taken hold of it. His
son's face was waxen, with sweat stand-
ing out like pearls on his brow. He said

nothing, but his eyes were filled with
questions which his lips could not put
into words. His own hand touched his
father's, and tightened over ft.

Henry Duryea drew his hand away.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes
looked straight over Arthur's lowered
head. "This thing must be thrashed out
now. I believe you when you say that
you discredit Cecilia's stories, but for a
sake greater than sanity I must tell you
the truth behind the legend — and believe
me, Arthur; there is a truth!"

He climbed to his feet and walked
to the window which looked out
over the street below. For a moment
he gazed into space, silent. Then he
turned and looked down at his son.

"You have heard only your aunt's ver-
sion of the legend, Arthur. Doubtless k
was warped into a thing far more hideous
than it actually was — if that is possible!
Doubtless she spoke to you of the Inquis-
itorial stake in Carcassonne where one of
my ancestors perished. Also she may
have mentioned that book, Vampyrs,
which a former Duryea is supposed to
have written. Then certainly she told
you about your two younger brothers —
my own poor, motherless children —
who were sucked bloodless in their
cradles. . . ."

Arthur Duryea passed a hand across
his aching eyes. Those words, so often
repeated by that witch of an aunt, stirred
up the same visions which had made his
childhood nights sleepless with terror.
He could hardly bear to hear them again
— and from the very man to whom they
were accredited.

"Listen, Arthur," 'the elder Duryea
went on quickly, his voice low with the
pain it gave him. "You must know that
true basis to your aunt's hatred. You
must know of that curse — that curse of
vampirism which is supposed to have foi-

308

WEIRD TALES

lowed the Duryeas through five centuries
of French history, but which we can dis-
pel as pure superstition, so often connec-
ted with ancient families. But I must
tell you that this part of the legend is
true:

"Your two young brothers actually
died in their cradles, bloodless. And I
stood trial in France for their murder,
and my name was smirched throughout
all of Europe with such an inhuman
damnation that it drove your aunt and
you to America, and has left me child-
less, hated, and ostracized from society
the world over.

"I must tell you that on that terrible
night in Duryea Castle I had been work-
ing late on historic volumes of Crespet
and Prinn, and on that loathsome tome,
Vampyrs. I must tell you of the sore-
ness that was in my throat and of the
heaviness of the blood which coursed
through my veins. ... And of that
presence, which was neither man nor
animal, but which I knew was some place
near me, yet neither within the castle
nor outside of it, and which was closer
to me than my heart and more terrible
to me than the touch of the grave. . . .

"I was at the desk in my library, my
head swimming in a delirium which left
me senseless until dawn. There were
nightmares that frightened me — fright-
ened me, Arthur, a grown man who had
dissected countless cadavers in morgues
and medical schools. I know that my
tongue was swollen in my mouth and
that brine moistened my lips, and that a
rottenness pervaded my body like a
fever.

"I can make no recollection of sanity
or of consciousness. That night remains
vivid, unforgettable, yet somehow com-
pletely in shadows. When I had fallen
asleep — if in God's name it was sleep —
I was slumped across my desk. But when
I awoke in the morning I was lying face

down on my couch. So you see, Arthur,
I had moved during that night, and I
had never known it!

"What I'd done and where I'd gone
during those dark hours will always re-
main an impenetrable mystery. But I do
know this. On the morrow I was torn
from my sleep by the shrieks of maids
and butlers, and by that mad wailing of
your aunt, I stumbled through the open
door of my study, and in the nursery I
saw those two babies there — lifeless,
white and dry like mummies, and with
twin holes in their necks that were
caked black with their own blood. , . «

"Oh, I don't blame you for your in-
credulousness, Arthur. I cannot believe
it yet myself, nor shall I ever believe it.
The belief of it would drive me to
suicide; and still the doubting of it drives
me mad with horror.

"AH of France was doubtful, and even
the savants who defended my name at
the trial found that they could not explain
it nor disbelieve it. The case was quieted
by the Republic, for it might have shaken
science to its very foundation and split
the pedestals of religion and logic. I was
released from the charge of murder;
but the actual murder has hung about
me like a stench.

"The coroners who examined those
tiny cadavers found them both dry of
all their blood, but could find no blood
on the floor of the nursery nor in the
cradles. Something from hell stalked the
halls of Duryea that night — and I should
blow my brains out if I dared to think
deeply of who that was. You, too, my
son, would have been dead and blood-
less if you hadn't been sleeping in a
separate room with your door barred on
the inside.

"You were a timid child, Arthur. You
were only seven years old, but you were
filled with the folk-lore of those mad
Lombards and the decadent poetry of

DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF DURYEA

309

your sunt. On that same night, while I
was some place between heaven and hell,
you, also, heard the padded footsteps on
the stone corridor and heard the tugging
at your door handle, for in the morning
you complained of a chill and of terrible
nightmares which frightened you in your
sleep. ... I only thank God that your
door was barred!"

Henry Duryea's voice choked into
a sob which brought the stinging
tears back into his eyes. He paused to
wipe his face, and to dig his fingers into
his palm.

"You understand, Arthur, that for
twenty years, under my sworn oath at
the Palace of Justice, I could neither see
you nor write to you. Twenty years, my
son, while all of that time you had
grown to hate me and to spit at my name.
Not until your aunt's death have you
called yourself a Duryea. . . . And now
you come to me at my bidding, and say
you love me as a son should love his
father.

"Perhaps it is God's forgiveness for
everything. Now, at last, we shall be
together, and that terrible, unexplainable
past will be buried for ever. . . ."

He put his handkerchief back into his
pocket and walked slowly to his son. He
dropped to one knee, and his hands
gripped Arthur's arms.

"My son, I can say no more to you.
I have told you the truth as I alone know
it. I may be, by all accounts, some
ghoulish creation of Satan on earth. I
may be a child-killer, a vampire, some
morbidly diseased specimen of vrykolakas
— things which science cannot explain.

"Perhaps the dreaded legend of the
Duryeas is true. Autiel Duryea was con-
victed of murdering his brother in that
same monstrous fashion in the year 1576,
and he died in Barnes at the stake.
Francois Duryea, in 1802, blew his head

apart with a blunderbuss on the morning
after his youngest son was found dead,
apparently from anemia. And there are
others, of whom I cannot bear to speak,
that would chill your soul if you were to
hear them.

"So you see, Arthur, there is a hellish
tradition behind our family. There is a
heritage which no sane God would ever
have allowed. The future of the Duryeas
lies in you, for you are the last of die
race. I pray with all of my heart that
providence will permit you to live your
full share of years, and to leave other
Duryeas behind you. And so if ever
again I feel that presence as I did in
Duryea Castle, I am going to die as
Francois Duryea died, over a hundred
years ago. . . ."

He stood up, and his son stood up at
his side.

"If you are willing to forget, Arthur,
we shall go up to that lodge in Maine.
There is a life we've never known
awaiting us. We must find that life, and
we must find the happiness which a curi-
ous fate snatched from us on those Lom-
bard sourlands, twenty years ago. . , ."

Henry Duryea's tall stature,
coupled with a slenderness of frame
and a sleekness of muscle, gave him an
appearance that was unusually gaunt. His
son couldn't help but think of that word
as he sat on the rustic porch of the
lodge, watching his father sunning him-
self at the lake's edge.

Henry Duryea had a kindliness in his
face, at times an almost sublime kindli-
ness which great prophets often possess.
But when his face was partly in shadows,
particularly about his brow, there was a
frightening tone which came into his
features; for it was a tone of famess, of
mysticism and conjuration. Somehow, in

310

[WEIRD TALES

the late evenings, he assumed the unap-
proachable mantle of a dreamer and sat
silently before the fire, his mind ever off
in unknown places.

In that little lodge there was no elec-
tricity, and the glow of the oil lamps
played curious tricks with the human
expression which frequently resulted in
something unhuman. It may have been
the dusk of night, the flickering of the
lamps, but Arthur Duryea had certainly
noticed how his father's eyes had sunken
further into his head, and how his
cheeks were tighter, and the outline of
his teeth pressed into the skin about his
lips.

IT WAS nearing sundown on the second
day of their stay at Timber Lake. Six
miles away the dirt road wound on
toward Houtlon, near the Canadian
border. So it was lonely there, on a soli-
tary little lake hemmed in closely with
dark evergreens and a sky which drooped
low over dusty-summited mountains.

Within the lodge was a homy fireplace,
and a glossy elk's-head which peered out
above the mantel. There were guns and
fishing-tackle on the walls, shelves of
reliable American fiction — Mark Twain,
Melville, Stockton, and a well-worn edi-
tion of Bret Harte.

A fully supplied kitchen and a wood
stove furnished them with hearty meals
which were welcome after a whole day's
tramp in the woods. On that evening
Henry Duryea prepared a select French
stew out of every available vegetable,
and a can of soup. They ate well, then
stretched out before the fire for a smoke.
They were outlining a trip to the Orient
together, when the back door blew open
with a terrific bang, and a wind swept
into the lodge with a coldness which
chilled them both.

"A storm," Henry Duryea said, rising
to fais feet, "Sometimes they have them

up here, and they're pretty bad. The roof
might leak over your bedroom. Perhaps
you'd like to sleep down here with me."
His fingers strayed playfully over his
son's head as he went out into the kitchen
to bar the swinging door.

Arthur's room was upstairs, next to a
spare room filled with extra furniture.
He'd chosen it because he liked the alti-
tude, and because the only other bedroom
was occupied. , . .

He went upstairs swiftly and silently.
His roof didn't leak; it was absurd even
to think it might. It had been his father
again, suggesting that they sleep together.
He had done it before, in a jesting,
whispering way — as if to challenge them
both if they dared to sleep together.

Arthur came back downstairs dressed
in his bath-robe and slippers. He stood
on the fifth stair, rubbing a two-day's
growth of beard. "I think I'll shave
tonight," he said to his father. "May I
use your razor?"

Henry Duryea, draped in a black
raincoat and with his face haloed in the
brim of a rain-hat, looked up from the
hall. A frown glided obscurely from his
features. "Not at all, son. Sleeping up-
stairs?"

Arthur nodded, and quickly said, "Are
you — going out?"

"Yes, I'm going to tie the boats up
tighter. I'm afraid the lake will rough
it up a bit."

Duryea jerked back the door and
stepped outside. The door slammed
shut, and his footsteps sounded on the
wood flooring of the porch.

Arthur came slowly down the remain-
ing steps. He saw his father's figure pass
across the dark rectangle of a window,
saw the flash of lightning that suddenly
printed his grim silhouette against the
glass.

He sighed deeply, a sigh which burned
in his throat; for his throat was sore

DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF DURYEA

511

and aching. Then he went into the bed-
loom, found the razor lying in plain view
on a bitch table-top.

As he reached for it, his glance fell
upon his father's open Gladstone bag
which rested at the foot of the bed. There
was a book resting there, half hidden by
a gray flannel shirt. It was a narrow,
yellow-bound book, oddly out of place.

Frowning, he bent down and lifted it
from the bag. It was surprizingly heavy
in his hands, and he noticed a faintly
sickening odor of decay which drifted
from it like a perfume. The title of the
volume had been thumbed away into an
indecipherable blur of gold letters. But
pasted across the front cover was a white
strip of paper, on which was typewritten
the word— INFANTIPHAGI.

He flipped back the cover and ran his
eyes over the title-page. The book was
printed in French — an early French — yet
to him wholly comprehensible. The
publication date was 1580, in Caen.

Breathlessly he turned back a second
page, saw a chapter headed, Vampires.

He slumped to one elbow across the
bed. His eyes were four inches from
those mildewed pages, his nostrils reeked
with the stench of them.

He skipped long paragraphs of pedan-
tic jargon on theology, he scanned brief
accounts of strange, blood-eating mon-
sters, vrykolakes, and leprechauns. He
read of Jeanne d'Arc, of Ludvig Prinn,
and muttered aloud the Latin snatches
from EpJ5copi.

He passed pages in quick succession,
his fingers shaking with the fear of it
and his eyes hanging heavily in their
sockets. He saw vague reference to
"Enoch," and saw the terrible drawings
by an ancient Dominican of Rome. . . «

Paragraph after paragraph he read: the
horror-striking testimony of Nider's
Ant-Hill, the testimony of people who
died shrieking at the stake; the recitals

of grave-tenders, of jurists and hang-
men. Then unexpectedly, among all of
this munimental vestige, there appeared
before his eyes the name of — Autiel
Duryea; and he stopped reading as
though invisibly struck.

THUNDER clapped near the lodge and
rattled the window-panes. The deep
rolling of bursting clouds echoed over
the valley. But he heard none of it. His
eyes were on those two short sentences
which his father — someone — had under-
lined with dark red crayon.

s , . The execution, four years ago, of Autiel
Duryea does not end the Ducyea controversy.
Time alone can decide whether the Demon has
claimed that family from its beginning to its
end. . . .

Arthur read on about the trial of
Autiel Duryea before Veniti, the Car-
cassonnean Inquisitor-General; read, with
mounting horror, the evidence which had
sent that far-gone Duryea to the pillar —
the evidence of a bloodless corpse who
had been Autiel Duryea's young brother.

Unmindful now of the tremendous
storm which had centered over Timber
Lake, unheeding the clatter of windows
and the swish of pines on the roof — even
of his father who worked down at the
lake's edge in a drenching rain — Arthur
fastened his glance to the blurred print
of those pages, sinking deeper and deeper
into the garbled legends of a dark
age. . . .

On the last page of the chapter he
again saw the name of his ancestor,
Autiel Duryea. He traced a shaking
finger over the narrow lines of words,
and when he finished reading them he
rolled sideways on the bed, and from his
lips came a sobbing, mumbling prayer.

"God, oh God in Heaven protect
me. . , ."

For he had read:

As in the case of Autiel Duryea we observe
that this specimen of vrykolsktts preys only upon

312

WEIRD TALES

the blood in its own family. It possesses none
of the characteristics of the undead vampire,
being usually a living male person of otherwise
normal appearances, unsuspecting its inherent
demonism.

But this vrykolakas cannot act according to its
demoniacal possession unless it is in the presence
of a second member of the same family, who acts
as a medium between the man and its demon.
This medium has none of the traits of the vam-
pire, but it senses the being of this creature
(when the metamorphosis is about to occur) by
reason of intense pains in the head and throat.
Both the vampire and the medium undergo
similar reactions, involving nausea, nocturnal
visions, and physical disquietude.

When these two outcasts are within a certain
distance of each other, the coalescence of inher-
ent demonism is completed, and the vampire is
subject to its attacks, demanding blood for its sus-
tenance. No member of the family is safe at
these times, for the vrykolakas, acting in its true
agency on earth, will unerringly seek out the
blood. In rare cases, where other victims are un-
available, the vampire will even take the blood
from the very medium which made it possible.

This vampire is born into certain aged families,
and naught but death can destroy it. It is not
conscious of its blood-madness, and acts only in a
psychic state. The medium, also, is unaware of
its terrible r61e ; and when these two are to-
gether, despite any lapse of years, the fusion of
inheritance is so violent that no power known on
earth can turn it back.

The lodge door slammed shut with a
sudden, interrupting bang. The lode
grated, and Henry Duryea's footsteps
sounded on the planked floor.

Arthur shook himself from the bed.
He had only time to fling that haunting
book into the Gladstone bag before he
sensed his father standing in the door-
way.

"You — you're not shaving, Arthur."
Duryea's words, spliced hesitantly, were
toneless. He glanced from the table-top
to the Gladstone, and to his son. He
said nothing for a moment, his glance
inscrutable. Then,

"It's blowing up cjuite a storm
outside."

Arthur swallowed the first words
which had come into his throat, nodded
cjuickly, "Yes, isn't it? Quite a storm."

He met his father's gaze, his face burn-
ing. "I — I don't think I'll shave, Dad.
My head aches."

Duryea came swiftly into the room
and pinned Arthur's arms in his grasp.
"What do you mean — your head aches?
How? Does your throat "

"No!" Arthur jerked himself away. He
laughed. "It's that French stew of yours!
It's hit me in the stomach!" He stepped
past his father and started up the stairs.

"The stew?" Duryea pivoted on his
heel. "Possibly.. I think I feel it
myself."

Arthur stopped, his face suddenly
white. "You — too?"

The words were hardly audible. Their
glances met — clashed like dueling-
swords.

For ten seconds neither of them said a
word or moved a muscle: Arthur, from
the stairs, looking down; his father be-
low, gazing up at him. In Henry Duryea
the blood drained slowly from his face
and left a purple etching across the
bridge of his nose and above his eyes. He
looked like a death's-head.

Arthur winced at the sight and twisted
his eyes away. He turned to go up the
remaining stairs,,

"Son!"

He stopped again; his hand tightened
on the banister.

"Yes, Dad?"

Duryea put his foot on the first stair,
"I want you to lock your door tonight.
The wind would keep it banging!"

"Yes," breathed Arthur, and pushed
up the stairs to his room.

Doctor Duryea's hollow footsteps
sounded in steady, unhesitant beats
across the floor of Timber Lake Lodge.
Sometimes they stopped, and the crack-
ling hiss of a sulfur match took their

DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF DURYEA

313

place, then perhaps a distended sigh, and,
again, footsteps. . . .

Arthur crouched at the open door of
his room. His head was cocked for those
noises from below. In his hands was a
double-barrel shotgun of violent gage.

. . . thud . . . thud . . . thud . . .

Then a pause, the clinking of a glass
and the gurgling of liquid. The sigh,
the tread of his feet over the floor. , . .

"He's thirsty," Arthur thought —
Thirsty!

Outside, the storm had grown into
fury. Lightning zigzagged between the
mountains, 611ing the valley with weird
phosphorescence. Thunder, like drums,
rolled incessantly.

Within the lodge the heat of the fire-
place piled the atmosphere thick with
stagnation. All the doors and windows
were locked shut, the oil-lamps glowed
weakly — a pale, anemic light.

Henry Duryea walked to the foot of
the stairs and stood looking up.

Arthur sensed his movements and
ducked back into his room, the gun
gripped in his shaking fingers.

Then Henry Duryea's footstep
sounded on the first stair.

Arthur slumped to one knee. He
buckled a fist against his teeth as a
prayer tumbled through them.

Duryea climbed a second step . , , and
another . . . and still one more. On the
fourth stair he stopped.

"Arthur!" His voice cut into the
silence like the crack of a whip. "Arthur!
Will you come down here?"

"Yes, Dad." Bedraggled, his body
hanging like cloth, young Duryea took
five steps to the landing.

"We can't be zanies!" cried Henry
Duryea. "My sou! is sick with dread.
Tomorrow we're going back to New
York. I'm going to get the first boat to

open sea. . . . Please come down here."
He turned about and descended the
stairs to his room.

Arthur choked back the words which
had lumped in his mouth. Half dazed,
he followed. . . .

In the bedroom he saw his father
stretched face-up along the bed. He saw
a pile of rope at his father's feet.

"Tie me to the bedposts, Arthur,"
came the command. "Tie both my hands
and both my feet.

Arthur stood gaping.

"Do as I tell you!"

"Dad, what hor "

"Don't be a fool! You read that book!
You know what relation you are to me!
I'd always hoped it was Cecilia, but now
I know it's you. I should have known it
on that night twenty years ago when
you complained of a headache and night-
mares. . . . Quickly, my head rocks with
pain. Tie me!"

Speechless, his own pain piercing him
with agony, Arthur fell to that grisly
task. Both hands he tied — and both
feet . . . tied them so firmly to the iron
posts that his father could not lift him-
self an inch off the bed.

Then he blew out the lamps, and
without a further glance at that Pro-
metheus, he reascended the stairs to his
room, and slammed and locked his door
behind him.

He looked once at the breech of his
gun, and set it against a chair by his bed.
He flung off his robe and slippers, and
within five minutes he was senseless in
slumber.

He slept late, and when he awak-
ened his muscles were as stiff as
boards, and the lingering visions of a
nightmare clung before his eyes. He
pushed his way out of bed, stood dazedly
on the floor.

314

S7EHID TALES

A dull, numbing cruciation circulated
through his head. He felt bloated . . ,
coarse and running with internal mucus.
His mouth was dry, his gums sore and
stinging.

He tightened his hands as he lunged
for the door. "Dad," he cried, and he
heard his voice breaking in his throat.

Sunlight filtered through the window
at the top of the stairs. The air was hot
and dry, and carried in it a mild odor of
decay.

Arthur suddenly drew back at that
odor — drew back with a gasp of awful
fear. For he recognized it — that stench,
the heaviness of his blood, the rawness
of his tongue and gums. . . . Age-long it
seemed, yet rising like a spirit in his
memory. All of these things he had
known and feit before.

He leaned against the banister, and half
slid, half stumbled down the stairs. , , «

His father had died during the night.
He lay like a waxen figure tied to his
bed, his face done up in knots.

Arthur stood dumbly at the foot of
the bed for only a few seconds; then he
went back upstairs to his room.

Almost immediately he emptied both
barrels of the shotgun into his head.

The tragedy at Timber lake was dis-
covered accidentally three days later,
A party of fishermen, upon finding the
two bodies, notified state authorities, and
an investigation was directly under way.
Arthur Duryea had undoubtedly met
death at his own hands. The condition
of his wounds, and the manner with
which he held the lethal weapon, at
once foreclosed the suspicion of any foul
play.

But the death of Doctor Henry Duryea
confronted the police with an inexplic-
able mystery; for his trussed-up body,
unscathed except for two jagged holes
over the jugular vein, had been drained
of all its blood.

The autopsy protocol of Henry Duryea
laid death to "undetermined causes," and
it was not until the yellow tabloids com-
menced an investigation into the Duryea
family history that the incredible and
fantastic explanations were offered to the
public.

Obviously such talk was held in popu-
lar contempt; yet in view of the contro-
versial war which followed, the author-
ities considered it expedient to consign
both Duryeas to the crematory, , , ,

'"The priestess led the rigid little creature forward under the fabulous tree.**

^/ree of Life

By C. L. MOORE

*A gripping tale of the planet Mars and the terrible monstrosity that called
its victims to it from ajar — a tale of Northwest Smith

OVER time-ruined Illar the search-
ing planes swooped and circled.
Northwest Smith, peering up at
them with a steel-pale state from the
shelter of a half-collapsed temple,
thought of vultures wheeling above car-

rion. All day long now they had been
raking these ruins for him. Presently, he
knew, thirst would begin to parch his
throat and hunger to gnaw at him. There
was neither food nor water in these
ancient Martian ruins, and he knew
315

516

WEIRD TALES

that it could be only a matter of time
before the urgencies of his own body
would drive him out to signal those
wheeling Patrol ships and trade his hard-
won liberty for food and drink. He
crouched lower under the shadow of the
temple arch and cursed the accuracy of
the Patrol gunner whose flame-blast had
caught his dodging ship just at the edge
of Illar's ruins.

Presently it occurred to him that in
most Martian temples of the ancient
days an ornamental well had stood in
the outer court for the benefit of way-
farers. Of course all water in it would be
a million years dry now, but for lack
of anything better to do he rose from his
seat at the edge of the collapsed central
dome and made his cautious way by still
intact corridors toward the front of the
temple. He paused in a tangle of wreck-
age at the courtyard's edge and looked
out across the sun-drenched expanse of
pavement toward that ornate well that
once had served travelers who passed by
here in the days when Mars was a green
planet.

It was an unusually elaborate well,
and amazingly well preserved. Its rim
had been inlaid with a mosaic pattern
whose symbolism must once have borne
deep meaning, and above it in a great
fan of time-defying bronze an elaborate
grille-work portrayed the inevitable tree-
of-life pattern which so often appears in
the symbolism of the three worlds. Smith
looked at it a bit incredulously from his
shelter, it was so miraculously preserved
amidst all this chaos of broken stone,
casting a delicate tracery of shadow on
the sunny pavement as perfectly as it
must have done a million years ago when
dusty travelers paused here to drink. He
could picture them filing in at noontime
through the great gates that

The vision vanished abruptly as his
questing eyes made the circle of the

ruined walls. There had been no gate.
He could not find a trace of it anywhere
around the outer wall of the court. The
only entrance here, as nearly as he could
tell from the foundations that remained,
had been the door in whose ruins he
now stood. Queer. This must have been
a private court, then, its great grille-
crowned well reserved for the use of the
priests. Or wait — had there not been a
priest-king Illar after whom the city
was named? A wizard-king, so legend
said, who ruled temple as well as palace
with an iron hand. This elaborately
patterned well, of material royal enough
to withstand the weight of ages, might
well have been sacrosanct for the use of
that long-dead monarch. It might

Across the sun-bright pavement swept
the shadow of a plant. Smith dodged
back into deeper hiding while the ship
circled low over the courtyard. And it
was then, as he crouched against a
crumbled wall and waited, motionless,
for the danger to pass, that he became
aware for the first time of a sound that
startled him so he could scarcely credit
his ears — a recurrent sound, choked and
sorrowful — the sound of a woman
sobbing.

The incongruity of it made him for-
getful for a moment of the peril hovering
overhead in the sun-hot outdoors. The
dimness of the temple ruins became a
living and vital place for that moment,
throbbing with the sound of tears. He
looked about half in incredulity, wonder-
ing if hunger and thirst were playing
tricks on him already, or if these broken
halls might be haunted by a million-years-
old sorrow that wept along die corridors
to drive its hearers mad. There were tales
of such haunters in some of Mars' older
ruins. The hair prickled faintly at the
back of his neck as he laid a hand on
the butt of his force-gun and commenced

THE TREE OF LIFE

317

a cautious prowl toward the source of the
muffled noise.

Presently he caught a flash of white,
luminous in the gloom of these ruined
walls, and went forward with soundless
steps, eyes narrowed in the effort to make
out what manner of creature this might
be that wept alone in time- forgotten
ruins. It was a woman. Or it had the
dim outlines of a woman, huddled
against an angle of fallen walls and
veiled in a fabulous shower of long dark
hair. But there was something uncannily
odd about her. He could not focus his
pale stare upon her outlines. She was
scarcely more than a luminous blot of
whiteness in the gloom, shimmering
with a look of unreality which the sound
of her sobs denied.

Before he could make up his mind
just what to do, something must have
warned the weeping girl that she was no
longer alone, for the sound of her tears
checked suddenly and she lifted her head,
turning to him a face no more distin-
guishable than her body's outlines. He
made no effort to resolve the blurred
features into visibility, for out of that
luminous mask burned two eyes that
caught his with an almost perceptible im-
pact and gripped them in a stare from
which he could not have turned if he
would.

They were the most amazing eyes he
had ever met, colored like moonstone,
milkily translucent, so that they looked
almost blind. And that magnetic stare
held him motionless. In the instant that
she gripped him with that fixed, moon-
stone look he felt oddly as if a tangible
bond were taut between them.

Then she spoke, and he wondered if
his mind, after all, had begun to give
way in the haunted loneliness of dead
Hlar; for though the words she spoke
fell upon his ears in a gibberish of

meaningless sounds, yet in his brain a
message formed with a clarity that far
transcended the halting communication
of words. And her milkily colored eyes
bored into his with a fierce intensity.

"I'm lost — I'm lost " wailed the

voice in his brain.

A rush of sudden tears brimmed the
compelling eyes, veiling their brilliance.
And he was free again with that cloud-
ing of the moonstone surfaces. Her
voice wailed, but the words were mean-
ingless and no knowledge formed in his
brain to match them. Stiffly he stepped
back a pace and looked down at her, a
feeling of helpless incredulity rising
within him. For he still could not focus
directly upon the shining whiteness of
her, and nothing save those moonstone
eyes were clear to him.

The girl sprang to her feet and rose
on tiptoe, gripping his shoulders with
urgent hands. Again the blind intensity
of her eyes took hold of his, with a
force almost as tangible as the clutch of
her hands; again that stream of intelli-
gence poured into his brain, strongly,
pleadingly.

"Please, please take me back! I'm so
frightened — I can't find my way — oh,
please!"

He blinked down at her, his dazed
mind gradually realizing the basic facts of
what was happening, Obviously her
milky, unseeing eyes held a magnetic
power that carried her thoughts to him
without the need of a common speech.
And they were the eyes of a powerful
mind, the outlets from which a stream
of fierce energy poured into his brain.
Yet the words they conveyed were the
words of a terrified and helpless girl. A
strong sense of wariness was rising in
him as he considered the incongruity of
speech and power, both of which were
beating upon him more urgently with
every breath. The mind of a forceful and

318

WEIRD TALES

strong-willed woman, carrying the sobs
of a frightened girl. There was no sin-
cerity in it.

"Please, please!" cried her impatience
in his brain. "Help me! Guide me back!"

"Back where?" he heard his own voice
asking.

"The Tree!" wailed that queer speech
in his brain, while gibberish was all his
ears heard and the moonstone stare trans-
fixed him strongly. "The Tree of Life!
Oh, take me back to the shadow of the
Tree!"

A vision of the gritleorn amen ted well
leaped into his memory. It was the only
tree symbol he could think of just then.
But what possible connection could there
be between the well and the lost girl —
if she was lost? Another wail in that un-
known tongue, another anguished shake
of his shoulders, brought a sudden reso-
lution into his groping mind. There
could be no harm in leading her back
to the well, to whose grille she must
surely be referring. And strong curiosity
was growing in his mind. Much more
than met the eye was concealed in this
queer incident. And a wild guess had
flashed through his mind that perhaps
she might have come from some sub-
terranean world into which the well de-
scended. It would explain her luminous
pallor, if not her blurriness; and, too,
her eyes did not seem to function in the
light. There was a much more incredible
explanation of her presence, but he was
not to know it for a few minutes yet.

"Come along," he said, taking the
clutching hands gently from his
shoulders. "I'll lead you to the well."

She sighed in a deep gust of relief and
dropped her compelling eyes from his,
murmuring in that strange, gabbling
tongue what must have been thanks. He
took her by the hand and turned toward
the ruined archway of the door.

Against his fingers her flesh was cool

and firm. To the touch she was tangible,
but even thus near, his eyes refused to
focus upon the cloudy opacity of her
body, the dark blur of her streaming hair.
Nothing but those burning, blinded eyes
were strong enough to pierce the veil
that parted them.

She stumbled along at his side over
the rough floor of the temple, saying
nothing more, panting with eagerness to
return to her incomprehensible "tree."
How much of that eagerness was assumed
Smith still could not be quite sure. When
they reached the door he halted her for
a moment, scanning the sky for danger.
Apparently the ships had finished with
this quarter of the city, for he could see
two or three of them half a mile away,
hovering low over Illar's northern sec-
tion. He could risk it without much
peril. He led the girl cautiously out into
the sun-hot court.

She could not have known by sight
that they neared the well, but when
they were within twenty paces of it she
flung up her blurred head suddenly and
tugged at his hand. It was she who led
him that last stretch which parted the
two from the well. In the sun the
shadow tracery of the grille's symbolic
pattern lay vividly outlined on the
ground. The gir! gave a little gasp of
delight. She dropped his hand and ran
forward three short steps, and plunged
into the very center of that shadowy
pattern on the ground. And what hap-
pened then was too incredible to believe.
The pattern ran over her like a gar-
ment, curving to the curve of her body in
the way all shadows do. But as she stood
there striped and laced with the darkness
of it, there came a queer shifting in the
lines of black tracery, a subtle, inex-
plicable movement to one side. And with
that motion she vanished. It was exactly
as if that shifting had moved her out of

THE TREE OF LIFE

319

one world into another. Stupidly Smith
stared at the spot from which she had
disappeared.

TTien several things happened almost
simultaneously. The zoom of a plane
broke suddenly into the quiet, a black
shadow dipped low over the rooftops,
and Smith, too late, realized that he
stood defenseless in full view of the
searching ships. There was only one way
out, and that was too fantastic to put
faith in, but he had no time to hesitate.
With one leap he plunged full into the
midst of the shadow of the tree of life.

Its tracery flowed round him, molding
its pattern to his body. And outside the
boundaries everything executed a queer
little sidewise dip and slipped in the most
extraordinary manner, like an optical il-
lusion, into quite another scene. There
was no intervention of blankness. It was
as if he looked through the bars of a
grille upon a picture which without warn-
ing slipped sidewise, while between the
bars appeared another scene, a curious,
dim landscape, gray as if with the twi-
light of early evening. The air had an
oddly thickened look, through which he
saw the quiet trees and the flower-
spangled grass of the place with a queer,
unreal blending, like the landscape in a
tapestry, all its outlines blurred.

In the midst of this tapestried twilight
the burning whiteness of the girl he had
followed blazed like a flame. She had
paused a few steps away and stood wait-
ing, apparently quite sure that he would
come after. He grinned a little to him-
self as he realized it, knowing that curi-
osity must almost certainly have driven
him in her wake even if the necessity for
shelter had not compelled his following.

She was clearly visible now, in this
thickened dimness — visible, and very
lovely, and a little unreal. She shone
with a burning clarity, the only vivid
thing in the whole twikt world* Eyes

upon that blazing whiteness, Smith
stepped forward, scarcely realizing that
he had moved.

Slowly he crossed the dark grass
toward her. That grass was soft under-
foot, and thick with small, low-blooming
flowers of a shining pallor. Botticelli
painted such spangled swards for the
feet of his angels. Upon it the girl's bare
feet gleamed whiter than the blossoms.
She wore no garment but the royal mantle
of her hair, sweeping about her in a
cloak of shining darkness that had a
queer, unreal tinge of purple in that low
light. It brushed her ankles in its fabu-
lous length. From the hood of it she
watched Smith coming toward her, a
smile on her pale mouth and a light
blazing in the deeps of her moonstone
eyes. She was not blind now, nor fright-
ened. She stretched out her hand to him
confidently.

"It is my turn now to lead you," she
smiled. As before, the words were
gibberish, but the penetrating stare of
those strange white eyes gave them a
meaning in the depths of his brain.

Automatically his hand went out to
hers. He was a little dazed, and her eyes
were very compelling. Her fingers
twined in his and she set off over the
flowery grass, pulling him beside her. He
did not ask where they were going. Lost
in the dreamy spell of the still, gray, en-
chanted place, he felt no need for words.
He was beginning to see more clearly in
the odd, blurring twilight that ran the
outlines of things together in that queer,
tapestried manner. And he puzzled in a
futile, muddled way as he went on over
what sort of land he had come into.
Overhead was darkness, paling into twi-
light near the ground, so that when he
looked up he was staring into bottomless
deeps of starless night.

Trees and flowering shrubs and the
tfower-starred grass stretched emptily

320

WEIRD TALES

about them in the thick, confusing gloom
of the place. He could see only a little
distance through that dim air. It was
as if they walked a strip of tapestried
twilight in some unlighted dream. And
the girl, with her lovely, luminous body
and richly colored robe of hair was like
a woman in a tapestry too, unreal and
magical.

After a while, when he had become a
little adjusted to the queerness of the
whole scene, he began to notice furtive
movements in the shrubs and trees they
passed. Things flickered too swiftly for
him to catch their outlines, but from the
tail of his eye he was aware of motion,
and somehow of eyes that watched. That
sensation was a familiar one to him, and
he kept an uneasy gaze on those shift-
ings in the shrubbery as they went on.
Presently he caught a watcher in full
view between bush and tree, and saw
that it was a man, a little, furtive, dark-
skinned man who dodged hastily back
into cover again before Smith's eyes
could do more than take in the fact of
his existence.

After that he knew what to expect and
could make them out more easily: little,
darting people with big eyes that shone
with a queer, sorrowful darkness from
their small, frightened faces as they
scuttled through the bushes, dodging al-
ways just out of plain sight among the
leaves. He could hear the soft rustle of
their passage, and once or twice when
they passed near a clump of shrubbery
he thought he caught the echo of little
whispering calls, gentle as the rustle of
leaves and somehow full of a strange
warning note so clear that he caught it
even amid the murmur of their speech.
Warning calls, and little furtive hiders in
the leaves, and a landscape of tapestried
blurting carpeted with Botticelli flower-
strewn sward. It was all a dream. He
felt quite sure of that*

IT was a long while before curiosity
awakened in him sufficiently to make
him break the stillness. But at last he
asked dreamily,

"Where are we going?"

The girl seemed to understand that
without the necessity of the bond her
hypnotic eyes made, for she turned and
caught his eyes in a white stare and an-
swered,

"To Thag. Thag desires you."

"What is Thag?"

In answer to that she launched without
preliminary upon a little singsong mono-
log of explanation whose stereotyped for-
mula made him faintly uneasy with the
thought that it must have been made very
often to attain the status of a set speech;
made to many men, perhaps, whom Thag
had desired. And what became of them
afterward? he wondered. But the girl
was speaking.

"Many ages ago there dwelt in Mar
the great King Illar for whom the city
was named. He was a magician of mighty
power, but not mighty enough to fulfill
all his ambitions. So by his arts he called
up out of darkness the being known
as Thag, and with him struck a bargain.
By that bargain Thag was to give of his
limitless power, serving Illar all the days
of Illar's life, and in return the king was
to create a land for Thag's dwelling-place
and people it with slaves and furnish a
priestess to tend Thag's needs. This is
that land. I am that priestess, the latest
of a long line of women born to serve
Thag. The tree-people are his — his les-
ser servants.

"I have spoken softly so that the tree-
people do not hear, for to them Thag is
the center and focus of creation, the end
and beginning of all life. But to you I
have told the truth."

"But what does Thag want of me?"

"It is not for Thag's servants to ques-
tion Thag."

W.T.— 4

THE TREE OF LIFE

321

"Then what becomes, afterward, of the
men Thag desires?" he pursued.

"You must ask Thag that."

She turned her eyes away as she spoke,
snapping the mental bond that had flowed
between them with a suddenness that left
Smith dizzy. He went on at her side more
slowly, pulling back a little on the tug of
her fingers. By degrees the sense of
dreaminess was fading, and alarm began
to stir in the deeps of his mind. After all,
there was no reason why he need let this
blank-eyed priestess lead him up to the
very maw of her god. She had lured him
into this land by what he knew now to
have been a trick; might she not have
worse tricks than that in store for him?

She held him, after all, by nothing
stronger than the clasp of her fingers, if
he could keep his eyes turned from hers.
Therein lay her real power, but he could
fight it if he chose. And he began to hear
more clearly than ever the queer note of
warning in the rustling whispers of the
tree-folk who still fluttered in and out of
sight among the leaves. The twilight
place had taken on menace and evil.

Suddenly he made up his mind. He
stopped, breaking the clasp of the girl's
hand.

"I'm not going," he said.

She swung round in a sweep of richly
tinted hair, words jetting from her in a
gush of incoherence. But he dared not
meet her eyes, and they conveyed no
meaning to him. Resolutely he turned
away, ignoring her voice, and set out to
retrace the way they had come. She called
after him once, in a high, clear voice that
somehow held a note as warning as that
in the rustling voices of the tree-people,
but he kept on doggedly, not looking
back. She laughed then, sweetly and
scornfully, a laugh that echoed uneasily
in his mind long after the sound of it
had died upon the twilit air.

After a while he glanced back over one
W. T.— 5

shoulder, half expecting to see the lumi-
nous dazzle of her body still glowing in
the dim glade where he had left her; but
the blurred tapestry-landscape was quite
empty.

He went on in the midst of a silence
so deep it hurt his ears, and in a solitude
unhaunted even by the shy presences of
the tree-folk. They had vanished with the
fire-bright girl, and the whole twilight
land was empty save for himself. He
plodded on across the dark grass, crush-
ing the upturned flower-faces under his
boots and asking himself wearily if he
could be mad. There seemed little other
explanation for this hushed and tapestried
solitude that had swallowed him up. In
that thunderous quiet, in that deathly
solitude, he went on.

When he had walked for what
seemed to him much longer than it
should have taken to reach his starting-
point, and still no sign of an exit ap-
peared, he began to wonder if there were
any way out of the gray land of Thag.
For the first time he realized that he had
come through no tangible gateway. He
had only stepped out of a shadow, and — ■
now that he thought of it — there were no
shadows here. The grayness swallowed
everything up, leaving the landscape odd-
ly flat, like a badly drawn picture. He
looked about helplessly, quite lost now
and not sure in what direction he should
be facing, for there was nothing here by
which to know directions. The trees and
shrubs and the starry grass still stretched
about him, uncertainly outlined in that
changeless dusk. They seemed to go on
for ever.

But he plodded ahead, unwilling to
stop because of a queer tension in the air,
somehow as if all the blurred trees and
shrubs were waiting in breathless antici-
pation, centering upon his stumbling fig-
ure. But all trace of animate life had van-

322

WEIRD TALES

ished with the disappearance of the priest-
ess' white-glowing figure. Head down,
paying little heed to where he was going,
he went on over the flowery sward.

An odd sense of voids about him star-
tled Smith at last out of his lethargic
plodding. He lifted his head. He stood
just at the edge of a line of trees, dim
and indistinct in the unchanging twilight.
Beyond them — he came to himself with
a jerk and stared incredulously. Beyond
them the grass ran down to nothingness,
merging by imperceptible degrees into a
streaked and arching void — not the sort
of emptiness into which a material body
could fall, but a solid nothing, curving
up toward the dark zenith as the inside
of a sphere curves. No physical thing
could have entered there. It was too ut-
terly void, an inviolable emptiness which
no force could invade.

He stared up along the inward arch of
that curving, impassable wall. Here, then,
was the edge of the queer land Illar had
wrested out of space itself. This arch
must be the curving of solid space which
had been bent awry to enclose the magical
land. There was no escape this way. He
could not even bring himself to approach
any nearer to that streaked and arching
blank. He could not have said why, but
it woke in him an inner disquiet so strong
that after a moment's staring he turned
his eyes away.

Presently he shrugged and set off along
the inside of the line of trees which
parted him from the space-wall. Perhaps
there might be a break somewhere. It
was a forlorn hope, but the best that
offered. Wearily he stumbled on over the
flowery grass.

How long he had gone on along that
almost imperceptibly curving line of bor-
der he could not have said, but after a
timeless interval of gray solitude he grad-
ually became aware that a tiny rustling
and whispering among the leaves had

been growing louder by degrees for some
time. He looked up. In and out among
the trees which bordered that solid wall
of nothingness little, indistinguishable
figures were flitting. The tree-men had
returned. Queerly grateful for their pres-
ence, he went on a bit more cheerfully,
paying no heed to their timid dartings to
and fro, for Smith was wise in the ways
of wild life.

Presently, when they saw how little
heed he paid them, they began to grow
bolder, their whispers louder. And
among those rustling voices he thought
he was beginning to catch threads of fa-
miliarity. Now and again a word reached
his ears that he seemed to recognize, lost
amidst the gibberish of their speech. He
kept his head down and his hands quiet,
plodding along with a cunning stillness
that began to bear results.

From the corner of his eye he could
see that a little dark tree-man had darted
out from cover and paused midway be-
tween bush and tree to inspect the queer,
tall stranger. Nothing happened to this
daring venturer, and soon another risked
a pause in the open to stare at the quiet
walker among the trees. In a little while
a small crowd of the tree-people was mov-
ing slowly parallel with his course, star-
ing with all the avid curiosity of wild
things at Smith's plodding figure. And
among them the rustling whispers grew
louder.

Presently the ground dipped down into
a little hollow ringed with trees. It was
a bit darker here than it had been on the
higher level, and as he went down the
slope of its side he saw that among the
underbrush which filled it were cunningly
hidden huts twined together out of the
living bushes. Obviously the hollow was
a tiny village where the tree-folk dwelt.

He was surer of this when they began
to grow bolder as he went down into the
dimness of the place. The whispers

THE TREE OF LIFE

323

shrilled a little, and the boldest among
his watchers ran almost at his elbow,
twittering their queer, broken speech in
hushed syllables whose familiarity still
bothered him with its haunting echo of
words he knew. When he had reached
the center of the hollow he became aware
that the little folk had spread out in a
ring to surround him. Wherever he
looked their small, anxious faces and
staring eyes confronted him. He grinned
to himself and came to a halt, waiting
gravely.

None of them seemed quite brave
enough to constitute himself spokesman,
but among several a hurried whispering
broke out in which he caught the words
"Thag'* and "danger" and "beware." He
recognized the meaning of these words
without placing in his mind their origins
in some tongue he knew. He knit his
sun-bleached brows and concentrated
harder, striving to wrest from that curi-
ous, murmuring whisper some, hint of its
original root. He had a smattering of
more tongues than he could have counted
offhand, and it was hard to place these
scattered words among any one speech.

But the word "Thag" had a sound like
that of the very ancient dryland tongue,
which upon Mars is considered at once
the oldest and the most uncouth of all the
planet's languages. And with that clue
to guide him he presently began to catch
other syllables which were remotely like
syllables from the dryland speech. They
were almost unrecognizable, far, far more
ancient than the very oldest versions of
the tongue he had ever heard repeated,
almost primitive in their crudity and sim-
plicity. And for a moment the sheerest
awe came over him, as he realized the
significance of what he listened to.

THE dryland race today is a handful
of semi-brutes, degenerate from the
ages of past time when they were a

mighty people at the apex of an almost
forgotten glory. That day is millions of
years gone now, too far in the past to
have record save in the vaguest folklore.
Yet here was a people who spoke the ru-
diments of that race's tongue as it must
have been spoken in the race's dim be-
ginnings, perhaps a million years earlier
even that that immemorial time of their
triumph. The reeling of millenniums set
Smith's mind awhirl with the effort at
compassing their span.

There was another connotation in the
speaking of that tongue by these timid
bush-dwellers, too. It must mean that the
forgotten wizard king, Illar, had peopled
his sinister, twilight land with the ances-
tors of today's dryland dwellers. If they
shared the same tongue they must share
the same lineage. And humanity's re-
morseless adaptability had done the rest.

It had been no kinder here than in the
outside world, where the ancient plains-
men who had roamed Mars' green prai-
ries had dwindled with their dying plains,
degenerating at last into a shrunken,
leather-skinned bestiality. For here that
same race root had declined into these
tiny, slinking creatures with their dusky
skins and great, staring eyes and their
voices that never rose above a whisper.
What tragedies must lie behind that grad-
ual degeneration!

All about him the whispers still ran.
He was beginning to suspect that through
countless ages of hiding and murmuring
those voices must have lost the ability to
speak aloud. And he wondered with a
little inward chill what terror it was
which had transformed a free and fear-
less people into these tiny wild things
whispering in the underbrush.

The little anxious voices had shrilled
into vehemence now, all of them chat-
tering together in their queer, soft, rust-
ling whispers. Looking back later upon
that timeless space he had passed in the

324

WEIRD TA1ES

hollow, Smith remembered it as some cu-
rious nightmare — dimness and tapestried
blurring, and a hush like death over the
whole twilight land, and the timid voices
whispering, whispering, eloquent with
terror and warning.

He groped back among his memories
and brought forth a phrase or two re-
membered from long ago, an archaic
rendering of the immemorial tongue they
spoke. It was the simplest version he
could remember of the complex speech
now used, but he knew that to them it
must sound fantastically strange. Instinc-
tively he whispered as he spoke it, feeling
like an actor in a play as he mouthed the
ancient idiom,

"I — I cannot understand. Speak —
more slowly "

A torrent of words greeted this render-
ing of their tongue. Then there was a
great deal of hushing and hissing, and
presently two or three between them be-
gan laboriously to recite an involved
speech, one syllable at a time. Always
two or more shared the task. Never in his
converse with them did he address any-
one directly. Ages of terror had bred all
directness out of them.

"Thag," they said. "Thag, the terrible
— Thag, the omnipotent — Thag, the un-
escapable. Beware of Thag."

For a moment Smith stood quiet, grin-
ning down at them despite himself. There
must not be too much of intelligence left
among this branch of the race, either, for
surely such a warning was superfluous.
Yet they had mastered their agonies of
timidity to give it. All virtue could not
yet have been bred out of them, then.
They still had kindness and a sort of
desperate courage rooted deep in fear.

"What is Thag?" he managed to in-
quire, voicing the archaic syllables uncer-
tainly. And they must have understood
the meaning if not the phraseology, for
another spate of whispered tumult burst

from the clustering tribe. Then, as be-
fore, several took up the task of answer-
ing.

"Thag — Thag, the end and the begin-
ning, the center of creation. When Thag
breathes the world trembles. The earth
was made for Thag's dwelling-place. All
things are Thag's. Oh, beware! Beware!"

This much he pieced together out of
their diffuse whisperings, catching up the
fragments of words he knew and fitting
them into the pattern.

"What — what is the danger?" he man-
aged to ask.

"Thag — hungers. Thag must be fed.
It is we who — feed — him, but there are
times when he desires other food than
us. It is then he sends his priestess forth
to lure — food — in. Oh, beware of Thag!"

"You mean then, that she — the priest-
ess — brought me in for — food?"

A chorus of grave, murmuring affirma-
tives.

"Then why did she leave me?"

"There is no escape from Thag. Thag
is the center of creation. All things are
Thag's. When he calls, you must answer.
When he hungers, he will have you. Be-
ware of Thag!"

Smith considered that for a moment in
silence. In the main he felt confident
that he had understood their warning cor-
rectly, and he had little reason to doubt
that they knew whereof they spoke. Thag
might not be the center of the universe,
but if they said he could call a victim
from anywhere in the land, Smith was
not disposed to doubt it. The priestess'
willingness to let him leave her unhin-
dered, yes, even her scornful laughter as
he looked back, told the same story.
Whatever Thag might be, his power in
this land could not be doubted. He made
up his mind suddenly what he must do,
and turned to the breathlessly waiting
little folk.

"Which wajr — lies Thag?" he asked.

THE TREE OF LIFE

325

A score of dark, thin arms pointed.
Smith turned his head speculatively to-
ward the spot they indicated. In this
changeless twilight all sense of direction
had long since left him, but he marked
the line as well as he could by the forma-
tion of the trees, then turned to the little
people with a ceremonious farewell rising
to his lips.

"My thanks for " he began, to be

interrupted by a chorus of whispering
cries of protest. They seemed to sense
his intention, and their pleadings were
frantic. A panic anxiety for him glowed
upon every little terrified face turned up
to his, and their eyes were wide with pro-
test and terror. Helplessly he looked
down.

"I — I must go," he tried stumblingly
to say. "My only chance is to take Thag
unawares, before he sends for me."

He could not know if they understood.
TTieir chattering went on undiminished,
and they even went so far as to lay tiny
hands on him, as if they would prevent
him by force from seeking out the terror
of their lives.

"No, no, no!" they wailed murmurous-
Jy. "You do not know what it is you
seek! You do not know Thag! Stay here!
Beware of Thag!"

A little prickling of unease went
■ down Smith's back as he listened.
Thag must be very terrible indeed if even
half this alarm had foundation. And to
be quite frank with himself, he would
greatly have preferred to remain here in
the hidden quiet of the hollow, with its
illusion of shelter, for as long as he was
allowed to stay. But he was not of the
stuff that yields very easily to its own ter-
rors, and hope burned strongly in him
still. So he squared his broad shoulders
and turned resolutely in the direction the
tree-folk had indicated.

When they saw that he meant to go,

their protests sank to a wail of bitter
grieving. With that sound moaning be-
hind him he went up out of the hollow,
like a man setting forth to the music of
his own dirge. A few of the bravest went
with him a little way, flitting through
the underbrush and darting from tree to
tree in a timidity so deeply ingrained that
even when no immediate peril threatened
they dared not go openly through the
twilight.

Their presence was comforting to
Smith as he went on. A futile desire to
help the little terror-ridden tribe was ris-
ing in him, a useless gratitude for their
warning and their friendliness, their gen-
uine grieving at his departure and their
odd, paradoxical bravery even in the
midst of hereditary terror. But he knew
that he could do nothing for them, when
he was not at all sure he could even save
himself. Something of their panic had
communicated itself to him, and he ad-
vanced with a sinking at the pit of his
stomach. Fear of the unknown is so poig-
nant a thing, feeding on its own terror,
that he found his hands beginning to
shake a little and his throat going dry as
he went on.

The rustling and whispering among
the bushes dwindled as his followers one
by one dropped away, the bravest staying
the longest, but even they failing in cour-
age as Smith advanced steadily in that di-
rection from which all their lives they
had been taught to turn their faces. Pres-
ently he realized that he was alone once
more. He went on more quickly, anxious
to come face to face with this horror of
the twilight and dispel at least the fear-
fulness of its mystery.

The silence was like death. Not a
breeze stirred the leaves, and the only
sound was his own breathing, the heavy
thud of his own heart. Somehow he felt
sure that he was coming nearer to his

326

[WEIRD TALES

goal. The hush seemed to confirm it. He
loosened the force-gun at his thigh.

In that changeless twilight the ground
was sloping down once more into a
broader hollow. He descended slowly,
eveiy sense alert for danger, not knowing
if Thag was beast or human or elemental,
pisible or invisible. The trees were begin-
ning to thin. He knew that he had almost
reached his goal.

He paused at the edge of the last line
ojf trees. A clearing spread out before
him at the bottom of the hollow, quiet in
the dim, translucent air. He could focus
directly upon no outlines anywhere, for
the tapestried blurring of the place. But
when he saw what stood in the very cen-
ter of the clearing he stopped dead-still,
like one turned to stone, and a shock of
utter cold went chilling through him.
Yet he could not have said why.

For in the clearing's center stood the
Tree of Life. He had met the symbol too
often in patterns and designs not to rec-
ognize it, but here that fabulous thing
was living, growing, actually springing
up from a rooted firmness in the spangled
grass as any tree might spring. Yet it
could not be real. Its thin brown trunk,
of no recognizable substance, smooth
and gleaming, mounted in the traditional
spiral; its twelve fantastically curving
branches arched delicately outward from
the central stem. It was bare of leaves.
No foliage masked the serpentine brown
spiral of the trunk. But at the tip of each
symbolic branch flowered a blossom of
bloody rose so vivid he could scarcely fo-
cus his dazzled eyes upon them.

This tree alone of all objects in the dim
land was sharply distinct to the eye-
terribly distinct, remorselessly clear. No
words can describe the amazing menace
that dwelt among its branches. Smith's
flesh crept as he stared, yet he could not
for all his staring make out why peril was
so eloquent there. To all appearances here

stood only a fabulous symbol miraculous-
ly come to life; yet danger breathed out
from it so strongly that Smith felt the
hair lifting on his neck as he stared.

It was no ordinary danger. A nameless,
choking, paralyzed panic was swell-
ing in his throat as he gazed upon the
perilous beauty of the Tree, Somehow
the arches and curves of its branches
seemed to limn a pattern so dreadful that
his heart beat faster as he gazed upon it.
But he could not guess why, though some-
how the answer was hovering just out of
reach of his conscious mind. From that
first glimpse of it his instincts shuddered
like a shying stallion, yet reason still
looked in vain for an answer.

Nor was the Tree merely a vegetable
growth. It was alive, terribly, ominously
alive. He could not have said how he
knew that, for it stood motionless in its
empty clearing, not a branch trembling,
yet in its immobility more awfully vital
than any animate thing. The very sight
of it woke in Smith an insane urging to
flight, to put worlds between himself and
this inexplicably dreadful thing.

Crazy impulses stirred in his brain,
coming to insane birth at the calling of
the Tree's peril — the desperate need to
shut out the sight of that thing that was
blasphemy, to put out his own sight rather
than gaze longer upon the perilous grace
of its branches, to slit his own throat that
he might not need to dwell in the same
world which housed so frightful a sight
as the Tree.

All this was a mad battering in his
brain. The strength of him was enough
to isolate it in a far corner of his con-
sciousness, where it seethed and shrieked
half heeded while he turned the cool con-
trol which the spaceways life had taught
him to the solution of this urgent ques-
tion. But even so his hand was moist

THE TREE OF LIFE

327,

land shaking on his gun-butt, and the
breath rasped in his dry throat.

Why — he asked himself in a deter-
mined groping after steadiness — should
the mere sight of a tree, even so fabulous
a one as this, rouse that insane panic in
the ga2er? What peril could dwell in-
visibly in a tree so frightful that the liv-
ing horror of it could drive a man mad
■with the very fact of its unseen presence?
He clenched his teeth hard and stared
resolutely at that terrible beauty in the
clearing, fighting down the sick panic
that rose in his throat as his eyes forced
themselves to dwell upon the Tree.

Gradually the revulsion subsided. Af-
ter a nightmare of striving he mustered
the strength to force it down far enough
to allow reason's entry once more. Stern-
ly holding down that frantic terror under
the surface of consciousness, he stared
resolutely at the Tree. And he knew that
this was Thag.

It could be nothing else, for surely two
such dreadful things could not dwell in
one land. It must be Thag, and he could
understand now the immemorial terror in
which the tree-folk held it, but he did
not yet grasp in what way it threatened
them physically. The inexplicable dread-
fulness of it was a menace to the mind's
very existence, but surely a rooted tree,
however terrible to look at, could wield
little actual danger.

As he reasoned, his eyes were seeking
restlessly among the branches, searching
for the answer to their dreadfulness.
After all, this thing wore the aspect of an
old pattern, and in that pattern there was
nothing dreadful. The tree of life had
made up the design upon that well-top
in Illar through whose shadow he had
entered here, and nothing in that bronze
grille-work had roused terror. Then

why ? What living menace dwelt

invisibly among these branches to twist
them into curves of horror?

A fragment of old verse drifted
through his mind as he stared in per-
plexity:

What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

And for the first time the true signifi-
cance of a "fearful symmetry" broke
upon him. Truly a more than human
agency must have arched these subtle
curves so delicately into dreadfulness, into
such an awful beauty that the very sight
of it made those atavistic terrors he was
so sternly holding down leap in a gibber-
ing terror.

A tremor rippled over the Tree. Smith
froze rigid, staring with startled eyes. No
breath of wind had stirred through the
clearing, but the Tree was moving with
a slow, serpentine grace, writhing its
branches leisurely in a horrible travesty
of voluptuous enjoyment. And upon
their tips the blood-red flowers were
spreading like cobra's hoods, swelling
and stretching their petals out and glow-
ing with a hue so eye-piercingly vivid that
it transcended the bounds of color and
blazed forth like pure light.

But it was not toward Smith that they
stirred. They were arching out from the
central trunk toward the far side of the
clearing. After a moment Smith tore his
eyes away from the indescribably dread-
ful flexibility of those branches and
looked to see the cause of their writhing.

A blaze of luminous white had ap-
peared among the trees across the clear-
ing. The priestess had returned. He
watched her pacing slowly toward the
Tree, walking with a precise and delicate
grace as liquidly lovely as the motion of
the Tree. Her fabulous hair swung down
about her in a swaying robe that rippled
at every step away from the moon-white
beauty of her body. Straight toward the
Tree she paced, and all the blossoms
glowed more vividly at her nearness, the

328

SFEIRD TALES

branches stretching toward her, rippling
with eagerness.

Priestess though she was, he could
not believe that she was going to come
within touch of that Tree the very sight
of which roused such a panic instinct
of revulsion in every fiber of him. But
she did not swerve or slow in her
advance, Walking delicately over the
flowery grass, arrogantly luminous in
the twilight, so that her body was the
center and focus of any landscape she
walked in, she neared her horribly
eager god.

Now she was under the Tree, and
its trunk had writhed down over her
and she was lifting her arms like a girl
to her lover. With a gliding slowness
the flame-tipped branches slid round
her. In that incredible embrace she
stood immobile for a long moment,
the Tree arching down with all its curl-
ing limbs, the girl straining upward, her
head thrown back and the mantle of her
hair swinging free of her body as she
lifted her face to the quivering blossoms.
The branches gathered her closer in their
embrace. Now the blossoms arched near,
curving down all about her, touching
her very gently, twisting their blazing
faces toward the focus of her moon-
white body. One poised directly above
her face, trembled, brushed her mouth
lightly. And the Tree's tremor ran un-
broken through the body of the girl it
clasped.

Thb incredible dreadfulness of that
embrace was suddenly more than
Smith could bear. All his terrors, crushed
down with so stern a self-control, with-
out warning burst all bounds and rushed
over him in a flood of blind revulsion. A
whimper choked up in his throat and
quite involuntarily he swung round and
plunged into the shielding trees, hands
to his eyes in a futile effort to blot out

the sight of lovely horror behind him
whose vividness was burnt upon his
very brain.

Heedlessly he blundered through the
trees, no thought in his terror-blank mind
save the necessity to run, run, run until
he could run no more. He had given
up all attempt at reason and rationality;
he no longer cared why the beauty of
the Tree was so dreadful. He only
knew that until all space lay between
him and its symmetry he must run and
run and run.

What brought that frenzied madness
to an end he never knew. When sanity
returned to him he was lying face down
on the flower-spangled sward in a silence
so deep that his ears ached with its
heaviness. The grass was cool against
his cheek. For a moment he fought the
back-flow of knowledge into his emptied
mind. When it came, the memory of
that horror he had fled from, he started
up with a wild thing's swiftness and
glared around pale-eyed into the un-
changing dusk. He was alone. Not
even a rustle in the leaves spoke of the
tree-folk's presence.

For a moment he stood there alert,
wondering what had roused him, wonder-
ing what would come next. He was not
left long in doubt. The answer was
shrilling very, very faintly through that
aching quiet, an infinitesimally tiny, un-
thinkably far-away murmur which yet
pierced his ear-drums with the sharpness
of tiny needles. Breathless, he strained in
listening. Swiftly the sound grew louder.
It deepened upon the silence, sharpened
and shrilled until the thin blade of it was
vibrating in the center of his innermost
brain.

And still it grew, swelling louder and
louder through the twilight world in ca-
dences that were rounding into a queer
sort of music and taking on such an un-
bearable sweetness that Smith pressed his

THE TREE OF LIFE

m«

hands over his ears in a futile attempt to
shut the sound away. He could not. It
rang in steadily deepening intensities
through every fiber of his being, piercing
him with thousands of tiny music-blades
that quivered in his very soul with intol-
erable beauty. And he thought he sensed
in the piercing strength of it a vibration
of queer, unnamable power far mightier
than anything ever generated by man, the
dim echo of some cosmic dynamo's hum.

The sound grew sweeter as it strength-
ened, with a queer, inexplicable sweetness
unlike any music he had ever heard be-
fore, rounder and fuller and more com-
plete than any melody made up of sepa-
rate notes. Stronger and stronger he felt
the certainty that it was the song of some
mighty power, humming and throbbing
and deepening through the twilight until
the whole dim land was one trembling
reservoir of sound that filled his entire
consciousness with its throbbing, driving
out all other thoughts and realizations,
until he was no more than a shell that
vibrated in answer to the calling.

For it was a calling. No one could
listen to that intolerable sweetness with-
out knowing the necessity to seek its
source. Remotely in the back of his
mind Smith remembered the tree-folk's
warning, "When Thag calls, you must
answer." Not consciously did he recall it,
for all his consciousness was answering
the siren humming in the air, and,
scarcely realizing that he moved, he had
turned toward the source of that calling,
stumbling blindly over the flowery sward
with no thought in his music-brimmed
mind but the need to answer that lovely,
power-vibrant summoning.

Past him as he went on moved other
shapes, little and dark-skinned and
ecstatic, gripped like himself in the hyp-
notic melody. The tree-folk had forgot-
ten even their inbred fear at Thag's call-

ing, and walked boldly through the opert
twilight, lost in the wonder of the song<

Smith went on with the rest, deaf and
blind to the land around him, alive to
one thing only, that summons from the
siren tune. Unrealizingly, he retraced the
course of his frenzied flight, past the trees
and bushes he had blundered through,
down the slope that led to the Tree's
hollow, through the thinning of the
underbrush to the very edge of the last
line of foliage which marked the valley's
rim.

By now the calling was so unbearably
intense, so intolerably sweet that
somehow in its very strength it set free a
part of his dazed mind as it passed the
limits of audible things and soared into
ecstasies which no senses bound. And
though it gripped him ever closer in its
magic, a sane part of his brain was wak-
ing into realization. For the first time
alarm came back into his mind, and by
slow degrees the world returned about
him. He stared stupidly at the grass
moving by under his pacing feet. He
lifted a dragging head and saw that the
trees no longer rose about him, that a
twilit clearing stretched away on all sides
toward the forest rim which circled it,
that the music was singing from some
source so near that — that

The Tree! Terror leaped within him
like a wild thing. The Tree, quivering
with unbearable clarity in the thick, dim
air, writhed above him, blossoms blazing
with bloody radiance and every branch
vibrant and undulant to the tune of that
unholy song. Then he was aware of the
lovely, luminous whiteness of the
priestess swaying forward under the
swaying limbs, her hair rippling back
from the loveliness of her as she moved.

Choked and frenzied with unreasoning
terror, he mustered every; effort that was

330

WEIRD TALES

In him to turn, to run again like a mad-
man out of that dreadful hollow, to hide
himself under the weight of all space
from the menace of the Tree. And all the
while he fought, all the while panic
drummed like mad in his brain, his re-
lentless body plodded on straight toward
the hideous loveliness of that siren singer
towering above him. From the first he
had felt subconsciously that it was Thag
who called, and now, in the very center
of that ocean of vibrant power, he knew.
Gripped in the music's magic, he went
on.

All over the clearing other hypnotized
victims were advancing slowly, with me-
chanical steps and wide, frantic eyes as
the tree-folk came helplessly to their
god's calling. He watched a group of
little, dusky sacrifices pace step by step
nearer to the Tree's vibrant branches.
The priestess came forward to meet them
with outstretched arms. He saw her take
the foremost gently by the hands. Un-
believing, hypnotized with horrified in-
credulity, he watched her lead the rigid
little creature forward under the fabulous
Tree whose limbs yearned downward like
hungry snakes, the great flowers glowing
with avid color.

He saw the branches twist out and
lengthen toward the sacrifice, quivering
with eagerness. Then with a tiger's leap
they darted, and the victim was swept out
of the priestess' guiding hands up into
the branches that darted round like
tangled snakes in a clot that hid him for
an instant from view. Smith heard a high,
shuddering wail ripple out from that knot
of struggling branches, a dreadful cry
that held such an infinity of purest horror
and understanding that he could not but
believe that Thag's victims in the moment
of their doom must learn the secret of his
horror. After that one frightful cry came
silence. In an instant the limbs fell apart
again from emptiness. The little savage

had melted like smoke among their
writhing, too quickly to have been de-
voured, more as if he had been snatched
into another dimension in the instant the
hungry limbs hid him. Flame-tipped,
avid, they were dipping now toward an-
other victim as the priestess paced serene-
ly forward.

And still Smith's rebellious feet were
carrying him on, nearer and nearer the
writhing peril that towered over his
head. The music shrilled like pain. Now
he was so close that he could see the
hungry flower-mouths in terrible detail as
they faced round toward him. The limbs
quivered and poised like cobras, reached
out with a snakish lengthening, down in-
exorably toward his shuddering helpless-
ness. The priestess was turning her calm
white face toward his.

Those arcs and changing curves of the
branches as they neared were sketching
lines of pure horror whose meaning he
still could not understand, save that they
deepened in dreadfulness as he neared.
For the last time that urgent wonder
burned up in his mind why — why so
simple a thing as this fabulous Tree
should be infused with an indwelling ter-
ror strong enough to send his innermost
soul frantic with revulsion. For the last
time — because in that trembling instant
as he waited for their touch, as the music
brimmed up with unbearable, brain-
wrenching intensity, in that one last
moment before the flower-mouths sei2ed
him — he saw. He understood.

With eyes opened at last by the
instant's ultimate horror, he saw the real
Thag. Dimly he knew that until now the
tiling had been so frightful that his eyes
had refused to register its existence, his
brain to acknowledge the possibility of
such dreadfulness. It had literally been
too terrible to see, though his instinct
knew the presence of infinite horror. But

THE TREE OF LIFE

331

now, In the grip of that mad, hypnotic
song, in the instant before unbearable
terror enfolded him, his eyes opened to
full sight, and he saw.

That Tree was only Thag's outline,
sketched three-dimensionally upon the
twilight. Its dreadfully curving branches
had been no more than Thag's barest
contours, yet even they had made his
very soul sick with intuitive revulsion.
But now, seeing the true horror, his mind
was too numb to do more than register
its presence: Thag, hovering monstrously
between earth and heaven, billowing and
surging up there in the translucent twi-
light, tethered to the ground by the
Tree's bending stem and reaching raven-
ously after the hypnotized fodder that
his calling brought helpless into his
clutches. One by one he snatched them
up, one by one absorbed them into the
great, unseeable horror of his being.
That, then, was the reason why they van-
ished so instantaneously, sucked into the
concealing folds of a thing too dreadful
for normal eyes to see.

The priestess was pacing forward.
Above her the branches arched and
leaned. Caught in a timeless paralysis of
horror, Smith stared upward into the
enormous bulk of Thag while the music
hummed intolerably in his shrinking
brain — Thag, the monstrous thing from
darkness, called up by Illar in those
long-forgotten times when Mars was a
green planet. Foolishly his brain
wandered among the ramifications of
what had happened so long ago that
time itself had forgotten, refusing to
recognize the fate that was upon him-
self. He knew a tingle of respect for the
ages-dead wizard who had dared com-
mand a being like this to his services —
this vast, blind, hovering thing, ravenous
for human flesh, indistinguishable even
now save in those terrible outlines that
sent panic leaping through him with

every motion of the Tree's fearful
symmetry.

All this flashed through his dazed
mind in the one blinding instant of
understanding. Then the priestess*
luminous whiteness swam up before his
hypnotized stare. Her hands were upon
him, gently guiding his mechanical foot-
steps, very gently leading him forward
into — into

The writhing branches struck down-
ward, straight for his face. And in
one flashing leap the moment's infinite
horror galvanized him out of his paral-
ysis. Why, he could not have satd. It is
not given to many men to know the
ultimate essentials of all horror, concen-
trated into one fundamental unit. To
most men it would have had that same
paralyzing effect up to the very instant of
destruction. But in Smith there must
have been a bed-rock of subtle violence,
an unyielding, inflexible vehemence upon
which the structure of his whole life was
reared. Few men have it. And when that
ultimate intensity of terror struck the
basic flint of him, reaching down through
mind and soul into the deepest depths of
his being, it struck a spark from that in-
flexible barbarian buried at the roots of
him which had force enough to shock
him out of his stupor.

In the instant of release his hand
swept like an unloosed spring, of its own
volition, straight for the butt of his
power-gun. He was dragging it free as
the Tree's branches snatched him from
its priestess' hands. The fire-colored
blossoms burnt his flesh as they closed
round him, the hot branches gripping
like the touch of ravenous fingers. The
whole Tree was hot and throbbing with
a dreadful travesty of fleshly life as it
whipped him aloft into the hovering bulk
of incarnate horror above*

332

WEIRD TALES

In the instantaneous upward leap of
the flower-tipped limbs Smith fought like
a demon to free his gun-hand from the
gripping coils. For the first time Thag
knew rebellion in his very clutches, and
the ecstasy of that music which had
dinned in Smith's ears so strongly that
by now it seemed almost silence was
swooping down a long arc into wrath,
and the branches tightened with hot in-
sistency, lifting the rebellious offering
into . Thag's monstrous, indescribable
bulk.

But even as they rose, Smith was twist-
ing in their clutch to maneuver his hand
into a position from which he could blast
that undulant tree trunk into nothing-
ness. He knew intuitively the futility of
firing up into Thag's imponderable mass.
Thag was not of the world he knew; the
flame blast might well be harmless to
that mighty hoverer in the twilight. But
at the Tree's root, where Thag's essen-
tial being merged from the imponderable
to the material, rooting in earthly soil,
he should be vulnerable if he were vul-
nerable at all. Struggling in the tight, hot
coils, breathing the nameless essence of
horror, Smith fought to free his hand.

The music that had rung so long in
his ears was changing as the branches
lifted him higher, losing its melody and
merging by swift degrees into a hum of
vast and vibrant power that deepened in
intensity as the limbs drew him upward
into Thag's monstrous bulk, the singing
force of a thing mightier than any
dynamo ever built. Blinded and dazed by
the force thundering through every atom
of his body, he twisted his hand in one
last, convulsive effort, and fired.

He saw the flame leap in a dazzling
gush straight for the trunk below. It
struck. He heard the sizzle of annihilated
matter. He saw the trunk quiver con-
vulsively from the very roots, and the

whole fabulous Tree shook once with an
ominous tremor. But before that tremor
could shiver up the branches to him the
hum of the living dynamo which was.
closing round his body shrilled up arcs
of pure intensity into a thundering
silence.

Then without a moment's warning the
world exploded. So instantaneously did
all this happen that the gun-blast's roar
had not yet echoed into silence before a
mightier sound than the brain could
bear exploded outward from the very
center of his own being. Before the
awful power of it everything reeled into
a shaken oblivion. He felt himself
falling. . . ,

A queer, penetrating light shining
upon his closed eyes roused Smith
by degrees into wakefulness again. He
lifted heavy lids and stared upward into
the unwinking eye of Mars' racing nearer
moon. He lay there blinking dazedly for
a while before enough of memory re-
turned to rouse him. Then he sat up
painfully, for every fiber of him ached,
and stared round on a scene of the wild-
est destruction. He lay in the midst of a
wide, rough circle which held nothing
but powdered stone. About it, rising rag-
gedly in the moving moonlight, the
blocks of time- forgotten Illar loomed.

But they were no longer piled one
upon another in a rough travesty of the
city they once had shaped. Some force
mightier than any of man's explosives
seemed to have hurled them with such
violence from their beds that their very
atoms had been disrupted by the force
of it, crumbling them into dust. And
in the very center of the havoc lay Smith,
unhurt.

He stared in bewilderment about the
moonlight ruins. In the silence it seemed
to him that the very air still quivered ia

THE TREE OF LIFE

333

shocked vibrations. And as he stared he
realized that no force save one could
have wrought such destruction upon the
ancient stones. Nor was there any explo-
sive known to man which would have
wrought this strange, pulverizing havoc
upon the blocks of Illar. That force had
hummed unbearably through the living
dynamo of Thag, a force so powerful that
space itself had bent to enclose it. Sud-
denly he realized what must have
happened.

Not Illar, but Thag himself had

warped the walls of space to enfold the
twilit world, and nothing but Thag's
living power could have held it so bent
to segregate the little, terror-ridden land
inviolate.

Then when the Tree's roots parted,
Thag's anchorage in the material world
failed and in one great gust of unthink-
able energy the warped space-walls had
ceased to bend. Those arches of solid
space had snapped back into their
original pattern, hurling the land and all

its dwellers into — into His mind

balked in the effort to picture what must

have happened, into what ultimate di-
mension those denizens must have
vanished.

Only himself, enfolded deep in Thag's
very essence, the intolerable power of the
explosion had not touched. So when the
warped space-curve ceased to be, and
Thag's hold upon reality failed, he must
have been dropped back out of the dis-
solving folds upon the spot where the
Tree had stood in the space-circled world,
through that vanished world-floor into
the spot he had been snatched from in
the instant of the dim land's dissolu-
tion. It must have happened after the
terrible force of the explosion had spent
itself, before Thag dared move even him-
self through the walls of changing energy
into his own far land again.

Smith sighed and lifted a hand to his
throbbing head, rising slowly to his feet.
What time had elapsed he could not
guess, but he must assume that the Patrol
still searched for him. Wearily he set out
across the circle of havoc toward the
nearest shelter which Illar offered. The
dust rose in ghostly, moonlit clouds under
his feet.

4

ed Nails

By ROBERT E. HOWARD

One of the strangest storks ever written— the tale of a barbarian adventurer,

a woman pirate, and a weird roofed city inhabited by the most

peculiar race of men ever spawned

the Story Thus Far

CONAN the Cimmerian, and Val-
eria, a woman pirate, having de-
serted from a mercenary army on
the Stygian-Darfar border, came, after
many days' flight, to a vast forest far to
the south. There their horses were slain
and devoured by a dragon, which Conan
managed to kill with a poisoned spear.
In a plain surrounded by the forest, they
came upon a fantastic city called Xuchot!,
a series of halls and chambers built all
under one roof, floored with a lambent
red stone and illuminated by means of
skylights and green fire-jewels. At first it
appeared to be deserted, but later they
discovered it to be inhabited by a tribe
of mongrel Stygians called Tlazitlans,
who were divided into rival clans known
as Tecuhltli and Xotalancas.

Valeria saved the life of a Tecuhltli
named Techotl, and with him they fled
to the castle of Tecuhltli near the western
gate of the city, pursued by the Xotal-
ancas, who dwelt by the eastern gate.
Tecuhltli was ruled over by Prince Olmec
and Princess Tascela, who displayed a
sinister interest in Valeria. Olmec told
the adventurers that half a century ago a
tribe ©f Tlazitlans had fled southward
from the Stygians, and fought their way
through the dragon -haunted forest and
found the city, then occupied by a degen-
erate race which had once been powerful
magicians. The Tlazitlans had destroyed
334

them and settled in the city, ruled by the
brothers Tecuhltli and Xotalanc, and by;
an evil ancient named Tolkemec.

A quarrel over a woman had split the
tribe into three clans, of which that of
Tolkemec had been utterly destroyed
twelve years before, Tolkemec escaping,
supposedly dying, from the dungeon
where he was thrown. Fear of the
dragons in the forest kept the people
imprisoned in the city, while the feud
reduced the tribe to a handful on each
side.

Red nails driven in an ebon column
denoted the number of Xotalancas slain
in the feud. Olmec persuaded Conan
and Valeria to remain and fight for his
clan as mercenaries. They were shown
to separate chambers, and Valeria awoke
during the night to find Yasala, Tascela's
maid, trying to drug her with the black
lotus. She tried to make the girl explain
her actions, but Yasala, fleeing from her,
ran down a stair leading to the catacombs
beneath the city, into which old Tolkemec
had dragged his broken body twelve years
before. Valeria heard her scream down
in the darkness, and heard an inhuman,
high-pitched tittering. Returning to her
chamber she secured her garments and
weapons, meaning to urge Conan to join
her in flight from the city she had begun
to fear. But just as she started for his
chamber she heard a sudden clamor of
yells and the clash of swords*

The story continues:

RED NAILS

335

9. Twenty Red Nails

Two warriors lounged in the guard-
room on the floor known as the Tier
of the Eagle. Their attitude was casual,
though habitually alert. An attack on
the great bronze door from without was
always a possibility, but for many years
no such assault had been attempted on
either side.

"The strangers are strong allies," said
one. "Olmec will move against the
enemy tomorrow, I believe."

He spoke as a soldier in a war might

have spoken. In the miniature world of
Xuchotl each handful of feudists was an
army, and the empty halls between the
castles was the country over which they
campaigned.

The other meditated for a space.

"Suppose with their aid we destroy
Xotalanc," he said. "What then,
Xatmec?"

"Why," returned Xatmec, "we will
drive red nails for them all. The cap-
tives we will burn and flay and quarter."

"But afterward?" pursued the other.
"After we have slain them all? Will it

"Even as he shifted, he hurled the kniie."

336

WEIRD TALES

not seem strange, to have no foes to
fight? All my life I have fought and
hated the Xotalancas. With the feud
ended, what is left?"

Xatmec shrugged his shoulders. His
thoughts had never gone beyond the
destruction of their foes. They could not
go beyond that.

Suddenly both men stiffened at a noise
outside the door.

"To the door, Xatmec!" hissed the
last speaker. "I shall look through the
Eye "

Xatmec, sword in hand, leaned against
the bronze door, straining his ear to hear
through the metal. His mate looked into
the mirror. He started convulsively. Men
were clustered thickly outside the door;
grim, dark-faced men with swords
gripped in their teeth — and their fingers
thrust into their ears. One who wore a
feathered head-dress had a set of pipes
which he set to his lips, and even as
the Tecuhltli started to shout a warning,
the pipes began to skirl.

The cry died in the guard's throat as
the thin, weird piping penetrated the
metal door and smote on his ears. Xatmec
leaned frozen against the door, as if
paralyzed in that position. His face was
that of a wooden image, his expression
one of horrified listening. The other
guard, farther removed from the source
of the sound, yet sensed the horror of
what was taking place, the grisly threat
that lay in that demoniac fifing. He
felt the weird strains plucking like un-
seen fingers at the tissues of his brain,
filling him with alien emotions and im-
pulses of madness. But with a soul-tear-
ing effort he broke the spell, and
shrieked a warning in a voice he did not
recognize as his own.

But even as he cried out, the music
changed to an unbearable shrilling that
was like a knife in the ear-drums. Xatmec
screamed in sudden agony, and all the

sanity went out of his face like a flame
blown out in a wind. Like a madman he
ripped loose thG chain, tore open the door
and rushed out into the hall, sword lifted
before his mate could stop him. A dozen
blades struck him down, and over his
mangled body the Xotalancas surged into
the guardroom, with a long-drawn,
blood-mad yell that sent the unwonted
echoes reverberating.

His brain reeling from the shock of
it all, the remaining guard leaped to meet
them with goring spear. The horror of
the sorcery he had just witnessed was
submerged in the stunning realization
that the enemy were in Tecuhltli. And
as his spearhead ripped through a dark-
skinned belly he knew no more, for a
swinging sword crushed his skull, even as
wild-eyed warriors came pouring in from
the chambers behind the guardroom.

It was the yelling of men and the
clanging of steel that brought Conan
bounding from his couch, wide awake
and broadsword in hand. In an instant
he had reached the door and flung it
open, and was glaring out into the corri-
dor just as Techotl rushed up it, eyes
blazing madly.

"The Xotalancas!" he screamed, in a
voice hardly human. "They are within
the door!"

Conan ran down the corridor, even as
Valeria emerged from her chamber.

"What the devil is it?" she called.

"Techotl says the Xotalancas are in,"
he answered hurriedly. "That racket
sounds like it."

With the Tecuhltli on their heels
they burst into the throneroom and
were confronted by a scene beyond the
most frantic dream of blood and fury.
Twenty men and women, their black hair
streaming, and the white skulls gleaming
on their breasts, were locked in combat
with the people of Tecuhltli. The women
W. T.— 5

RED NAILS

537

on both sides fought as madly as the men,
and already the room and the hall be-
yond were strewn with corpses.

Olmec, naked but for a breech-clout,
was fighting before his throne, and as the
adventurers entered, Tascela ran from an
inner chamber with a sword in her hand.

Xatmec and his mate were dead, so
there was none to tell the Tecuhltli how
their foes had found their way into their
citadel. Nor was there any to say what
had prompted that mad attempt. But the
losses of the Xotalancas had been greater,
their position more desperate, than the
Tecuhltli had known. The maiming of
their scaly ally, the destruction of the
Burning Skull, and the news, gasped by
a dying man, that mysterious white-
skin allies had joined their enemies, had
driven them to the frenzy of desperation
and the wild determination to die dealing
death to their ancient foes.

The Tecuhltli, recovering from the first
stunning shock of the surprize that had
swept them back into the throneroom
and Uttered the floor with their corpses,
fought back with an equally desperate
fury, while the door-guards from the
lower floors came racing to hurl them-
selves into the fray. It was the death-
fight of rabid wolves, blind, panting,
merciless. Back and forth it surged, from
door to dais, blades whickering and strik-
ing into flesh, blood spurting, feet stamp-
ing the crimson floor where redder pools
were forming. Ivory tables crashed over,
seats were splintered, velvet hangings
torn down were stained red. It was the
bloody climax of a bloody half -century,
and every man there sensed it.

But the conclusion was inevitable. The
Tecuhltli outnumbered the invaders al-
most two to one, and they were heartened
by that fact and by the entrance into the
melee of their light-skinned allies.

These crashed into the fray with the
devastating effect of a hurricane plowing
,W. T.— 6

through a grove of saplings. In sheer
strength no three TIazitlans were a match
for Conan, and in spite of his weight he
was quicker on his feet than any of
them. He moved through the whirling,
eddying mass with the surety and de-
structiveness of a gray wolf amidst a pack
of alley curs, and he strode over a wake
of crumpled figures.

Valeria fought beside him, her lips
smiling and her eyes blazing. She was
stronger than the average man, and far
quicker and more ferocious. Her sword
was like a living thing in her hand.
Where Conan beat down opposition by
the sheer weight and power of his blows,
breaking spears, splitting skulls and cleav-
ing bosoms to the breastbone, Valeria
brought into action a finesse of sword-
play that dazzled and bewildered her an-
tagonists before it slew them. Again and
again a warrior, heaving high his heavy
blade, found her point in his jugular be-
fore he could strike. Conan, towering
above the field, strode through the wel-
ter smiting right and left, but Valeria
moved like an illusive phantom, con-
stantly shifting, and thrusting and slash-
ing as she shifted. Swords missed her
again and again as the wielders flailed
the empty air and died with her point in
their hearts or throats, and her mocking
laughter in their ears.

Neither sex nor condition was consid-
ered by the maddened combatants. The
five women of the Xotalancas were down
with their throats cut before Conan and
Valeria entered the fray, and when a man
or woman went down under the stamping
feet, there was always a knife ready for
the helpless throat, or a sandaled foot
eager to crush the prostrate skull.

From wall to wall, from door to door
rolled the waves of combat, spilling over
into adjoining chambers. And presently
only Tecuhltli and their white-skinned
allies stood upright in the great throne-

5JS

WEIRD TALES

room. The survivors stared bleakly and
blankly at each other, like survivors after
Judgment Day or the destruction of the
world. On legs wide-braced, hands grip-
ping notched and dripping swords, blood
trickling down their arms, they stared at
one another across the mangled corpses
of friends and foes. They had no breath
left to shout, but a bestial mad howling
rose from their lips. It was not a human
cry of triumph. It was the howling of a
rabid wolf-pack stalking among the bod-
ies of its victims.

Conan caught Valeria's arm and turned
her about.

"You've got a stab in the calf of your
leg," he growled.

She glanced down, for the first time
aware of a stinging in the muscles of her
leg. Some dying man on the floor had
fleshed his dagger with his last effort.

"You look like a butcher yourself," she
laughed.

He shook a red shower from his hands.

"Not mine. Oh, a scratch here and
there. Nothing to bother about. But that
calf ought to be bandaged."

Olmec came through the litter, look-
ing like a ghoul with his naked mas-
sive shoulders splashed with blood, and
his black beard dabbled in crimson. His
eyes were red, like the reflection of flame
on black water.

"We have won!" he croaked dazedly.
"The feud is ended! The dogs of Xota-
lanc lie dead! Oh, for a captive to flay
alive! Yet it is good to look upon their
dead faces. Twenty dead dogs! Twenty
red nails for the black column!"

"You'd best see to your wounded,"
grunted Conan, turning away from him.
"Here, girl, let me see that leg."

"Wait a minute!" she shook him off
impatiently. The fire of fighting still
burned brightly in her soul. "How do

we know these are all of them? These
might have come on a raid of their own."

"They would not split the clan on a
foray like this," said Olmec, shaking his
head, and regaining some of his ordinary
intelligence. Without his purple robe the
man seemed less like a prince than some
repellent beast of prey. "I will stake my
head upon it that we have slain them all.
There were less of them than I dreamed,
and they must have been desperate. But
how came they in Tecuhltli?"

Tascela came forward, wiping her
sword on her naked thigh, and holding
in her other hand an object she had taken
from the body of the feathered leader of
the Xotalancas.

"The pipes of madness," she said. "A
warrior tells me that Xatmec opened the
door to the Xotalancas and was cut down
as they stormed into the guardroom. This
warrior came to the guardroom from the
inner hall just in time to see it happen
and to hear the last of a weird strain of
music which froze his very soul. Tolke-
mec used to talk of these pipes, which the
Xuchotlans swore were hidden some-
where in the catacombs with the bones
of the ancient wizard who used them in
his lifetime. Somehow the dogs of Xota-
lanc found them and learned their se-
cret."

"Somebody ought to go to Xotalanc
and see if any remain alive," said Conan.
"I'll go if somebody will guide me."

Olmec glanced at the remnants of his
people. There were only twenty left
alive, and of these several lay groaning
on the floor. Tascela was the only one of
the Tecuhltli who had escaped without
a wound. The princess was untouched,
though she had fought as savagely as any.

"Who will go with Conan to Xota-
lanc?" asked Olmec.

Techotl limped forward. The wound

RED NAILS

B39

in his thigh had started bleeding afresh,
and he had another gash across his ribs.

"I will go!"

"No, you won't," vetoed Conan. "And
you're not going either, Valeria. In a lit-
tle while that leg will be getting stiff."

"I will go," volunteered a warrior, who
was knotting a bandage about a slashed
forearm.

"Very well, Yanath. Go with the Cim-
merian. And you, too, Topal." Olmec
indicated another man whose injuries
were slight. "But first aid us to lift the
badly wounded on these couches where
we may bandage their hurts."

This was done quickly. As they stooped
to pick up a woman who had been
stunned by a war-club, Olmec's beard
brushed Topal's ear. Conan thought the
prince muttered something to the war-
rior, but he could not be sure. A few
moments later he was leading his com-
panions down the hall.

Conan glanced back as he went out the
door, at that shambles where the dead
lay on the smoldering floor, blood-stained
dark limbs knotted in attitudes of fierce
muscular effort, dark faces frozen in
masks of hate, glassy eyes glaring up at
the green fire- jewels which bathed the
ghastly scene in a dusky emerald witch-
light. Among the dead the living moved
aimlessly, like people moving in a trance.
Conan heard Olmec call a woman and di-
rect her to bandage Valeria's leg. The
pirate followed the woman into an ad-
joining chamber, already beginning to
limp slightly.

Warily the two Tecuhltli led Conan
along the hall beyond the bronze
door, and through chamber after cham-
ber shimmering in the green fire. They
saw no one, heard no sound. After they
crossed the Great Hall which bisected the
city from north to south, their caution
was increased b£ the realization of theic

nearness to enemy territory. But cham-
bers and halls lay empty to their wary
gaze, and they came at last along a broad
dim hallway and halted before a bronze
door similar to the Eagle Door of Tecuhl-
tli. Gingerly they tried it, and it opened
silently under their fingers. Awed, they
stared into the green-lit chambers beyond.
For fifty years no Tecuhltli had entered
those halls save as a prisoner going to a
hideous doom. To go to Xotalanc had
been the ultimate horror that could befall
a man of the western castle. The terror
of it had stalked through their dreams
since earliest childhood. To Yanath and
Topal that bronze door was like the por-
tal of hell.

They cringed back, unreasoning horror
in their eyes, and Conan pushed past
them and strode into Xotalanc.

Timidly they followed him. As each
man set foot over the threshold he stared
and glared wildly about him. But only
their quick, hurried breathing disturbed
the silence.

They had come into a square guard-
room, like that behind the Eagle Door of
Tecuhltli, and, similarly, a hall ran away
from it to a broad chamber that was a
counterpart of Olmec's throneroom.

Conan glanced down the hall with its
rugs and divans and hangings, and stood
listening intently. He heard no noise, and
the rooms had an empty feel. He did not
believe there were any Xotalancas left
alive in Xuchotl.

"Come on," he muttered, and started
down ihe hall.

He had not gone far when he was
aware that only Yanath was following
him. He wheeled back to see Topal
standing in an attitude of horror, one arm
out as if to fend off some threatening
peril, his distended eyes fixed with hyp-
notic intensity on something protruding
from behind a divan.

".What the devil?" Then Conan saw

w

WEIRD TALES

what Topal was stating at, and he felt a
faint twitching of the skin between his
giant shoulders. A monstrous head pro-
truded from behind the divan, a reptilian
head, broad as the head of a crocodile,
with down-curving fangs that projected
over the lower jaw. But there was an un-
natural limpness about the thing, and the
hideous eyes were glazed.
« Conan peered behind the couch. It
was a great serpent which lay there limp
in death, but such a serpent as he had
never seen in his wanderings. The reek
and chill of the deep black earth were
about it, and its color was an indetermi-
nable hue which changed with each new
angle from which he surveyed it. A great
wound in the neck showed what had
caused its death.

"It is the Crawler?" whispered Yanath.

"It's the thing I slashed on the stair,"
grunted Conan. "After it ttailed us to
the Eagle Door, it dragged itself here to
die. How could the Xotalancas control
such a brute?"

The Tecuhltli shivered and shook their
heads.

"They brought it up from the black
runnels below the catacombs. They dis-
covered secrets unknown to Tecuhltli."

"Well, it's dead, and if they'd had any
more of them, they'd have brought them
along when they came to Tecuhltli. Come
on."

They crowded close at his heels as he
strode down the hail and thrust on the
silver-worked door at the other end.

"If we don't find anybody on this
floor," he said, "we'll descend into the
lower floors. We'll explore Xotalanc
from the roof to the catacombs. If Xota-
lanc is like Tecuhltli, all the rooms and
halls in this tier will be lighted— what
the devil!"

They had come into the broad throne-
chamber, so similar to that one in Te-
cuhltli. There were the same jade dais

and ivory seat, the same divans, rugs and
hangings on the walls. No black, red-
scarred column stood behind the throne-
dais, but evidences of the grim feud were
not lacking.

Ranged along the wall behind the dais
were rows of glass-covered shelves. And
on those shelves hundreds of human
heads, perfectly preserved, stared at the
startled watchers with emotionless eyes, as
they had stared for only the gods knew
how many months and years.

Topal muttered a curse, but Yanath
stood silent, the mad light growing
in his wide eyes. Conan frowned, know-
ing that TIazitlan sanity was hung on a
hair-trigger.

Suddenly Yanath pointed to the ghastly
relics with a twitching finger.

"There is my brother's head!" he mur-
mured. "And there is my father's younger'
brother! And there beyond them is my,
sister's eldest son!"

Suddenly he began to weep, dry-eyed,
with harsh, loud sobs that shook his
frame. He did not take his eyes from the
heads. His sobs grew shriller, changed to
frightful, high-pitched laughter, and that
in turn became an unbearable screaming.
Yanath was stark mad.

Conan laid a hand on his shoulder, and
as if the touch had released all the frenzy
in his soul, Yanath screamed and whirled,
striking at the Cimmerian with his sword.
Conan parried the blow, and Topal tried
to catch Yanath's arm. But the madman
avoided him and with froth flying from
his lips, he drove his sword deep into
Topal's body. Topal sank down with a
groan, and Yanath whirled for an instant
like a crazy dervish; then he ran at the
shelves and began hacking at the glass
with his sword, screeching blasphemously.

Conan sprang at him from behind, try-
ing to catch him unaware and disarm him,
but the madman wheeled and lunged at

RED NAILS

341!

him, screaming like a lost soul. Realizing
that the warrior was hopelessly insane, the
Cimmerian side-stepped, and as the ma-
niac went past, he swung a cut that sev-
ered the shoulder-bone and breast, and
dropped the man dead beside his dying
victim.

Conan bent over Topal, seeing that the
man was at his last gasp. It was useless
to seek to stanch the blood gushing from
the horrible wound.

"You're done for, Topal," grunted Co-
nan. "Any word you want to send to
your people?"

"Bend closer," gasped Topal, and Co-
nan complied— and an instant later
caught the man's wrist as Topal struck
at his breast with a dagger.

"Crom!" swore Conan. "Are you mad,
too?"

"Olmec ordered it!" gasped the dying
man. "I know not why. As we lifted the
"wounded upon the couches he whispered
to me, bidding me to slay you as we re-
turned to Tecuhltli " And with the

name of his clan on his lips, Topal died.

Conan scowled down at him in puzzle-
ment. This whole affair had an aspect
of lunacy. Was Olmec mad, too? Were
all the Tecuhltli madder than he had real-
ized? With a shrug of his shoulders he
strode down the hall and out of the
bronze door, leaving the dead Tecuhltli
lying before the staring dead eyes of their
kinsmen's heads.

Conan needed no guide back through
the labyrinth they had traversed. His
primitive instinct of direction led him un-
erringly along the route they had come.
He traversed it as warily as he had be-
fore, his sword in his hand, and his eyes
fiercely searching each shadowed nook
and corner; for it was his former allies
he feared now, not the ghosts of the slain
Xotalancas.

He had crossed the Great Hall and en-
tered the chambers beyond when he heard

something moving ahead of him — some-
thing which gasped and panted, and
moved with a strange, floundering, scram-
bling noise. A moment later Conan saw
a man crawling over the flaming floor to-
ward him — a man whose progress left a
broad bloody smear on the smoldering
surface. It was Techotl and his eyes were
already glazing; from a deep gash in his
breast blood gushed steadily between the
fingers of his clutching hand. With the
other he clawed and hitched himself
along.

"Conan," he cried chokingly, "Co-
nan! Olmec has taken the yellow-haired
woman!"

"So that's why he told Topal to kiH
me!" murmured Conan, dropping to his
knee beside the man, who his experienced
eye told him was dying. "Olmec isn't so
mad as I thought."

Techotl's groping fingers plucked at
Conan's arm. In the cold, loveless and
altogether hideous life of the Tecuhltli
his admiration and affection for the in-
vaders from the outer world formed a
warm, human oasis, constituted a tie that
connected him with a more natural hu-
manity that was totally lacking in his fel-
lows, whose only emotions were hate, lust
and the urge of sadistic cruelty.

"I sought to oppose him," gurgled
Techotl, blood bubbling frothily to his
lips. "But he struck me down. He
thought he had slain me, but I crawled
away. Ah, Set, how far I have crawled
in my own blood! Beware, Conan! Ol-
mec may have set an ambush for your re-
turn! Slay Olmec! He is a beast. Take
Valeria and flee! Fear not to traverse the
forest. Olmec and Tascela lied about the
dragons. They slew each other years ago,
all save the strongest. For a dozen years
there has been only one dragon. If you
have slain him, there is naught in the for-
est to harm you. He was the god Olmec
worshipped; and Olmec fed human sacri-

*fc

WEIRD TALES

fices to him, the very old and the very
young, bound and hurled from the wall.
Hasten! Olmec has taken Valeria to the

Chamber of the "

His head slumped down and he was
dead before it came to rest on the floor.

Conan sprang up, his eyes like live
coals. So that was Olmec's game,
having first used the strangers to destroy
his foes! He should have known that
something of the sort would be going on
in that black-bearded degenerate's mind.

The Cimmerian started toward Tecuhl-
tli with reckless speed. Rapidly he reck-
oned the numbers of his former allies.
Only twenty-one, counting Olmec, had
survived that fiendish battle in the throne-
room. Three had died since, which left
seventeen enemies with which to reckon.
In his rage Conan felt capable of account-
ing for the whole clan single-handed.

But the innate craft of the wilderness
rose to guide his berserk rage. He re-
membered Techotl's warning of an am-
bush. It was quite probable that the
prince would make such provisions, on
the chance that Topal might have failed
to carry out his order. Olmec would be
expecting him to return by the same route
he had followed in going to Xotalanc.

Conan glanced up at a skylight under
which he was passing and caught the
blurred glimmer of stars. They had not
yet begun to pale for dawn. The events
of the night had been crowded into a
comparatively short space of time.

He turned aside from his direct course
and descended a winding staircase to the
floor below. He did not know where the
door was to be found that let into the
castle en that level, but he knew he could
find it. How he was to force the locks he
did not know; he believed that the doors
of Tecuhltli would all be locked and
bolted, if for no other reason than the

habits of half a century. But there was
nothing else but to attempt it.

Sword in hand, he hurried noiselessly on
through a maze of green-lit or shadowy
rooms and halls. He knew he must be
near Tecuhltli, when a sound brought
him up short. He recognized it for what
it was — a human being trying to cry out
through a stifling gag. It came from
somewhere ahead of him, and to the left.
In those deathly-still chambers a small
sound carried a long way,

Conan turned aside and went seeking
after the sound, which continued to be re-
peated. Presently he was glaring through
a doorway upon a weird scene. In the
room into which he was looking a low
rack-like frame of iron lay on the floor,
and a giant figure was bound prostrate
upon it. His head rested on a bed of
iron spikes, which were already crimson-
pointed with blood where they had
pierced his scalp. A peculiar harness-like
contrivance was fastened about his head,
though in such a manner that the leather
band did not protect his scalp from the
spikes. This harness was connected by a
slender chain to the mechanism that up-
held a huge iron ball which was sus-
pended above the captive's hairy breast.
As long as the man could force himself
to remain motionless the iron ball hung
in its place. But when the pain of the
iron points caused him to lift his head,
the ball lurched downward a few inches.
Presently his aching neck muscles would
no longer support his head in its unnatu-
ral position and it would fall back on the
spikes again. It was obvious that eventu-
ally the ball would crush him to a pulp,
slowly and inexorably. The victim was
gagged, and above the gag his great black
ox-eyes rolled wildly toward the man in
the doorway, who stood in silent amaze-
ment. The man on the rack was Olmec,
prince of Tecuhltli,

RED NAILS

343

6. The Eyes of Tascela

U "\JL 7"hy did you bring me into this

T Y chamber to bandage my legs?"
demanded Valeria. "Couldn't you have
done it just as well in the throneroom?"

She sat on a couch with her wounded
leg extended upon it, and the Tecuhltli
woman had just bound it with silk ban-
dages. Valeria's red-stained sword lay on
the couch beside her.

She frowned as she spoke. The woman
had done her task silently and efficiently,
but Valeria liked neither the lingering,
caressing touch of her slim fingers nor
the expression in her eyes.

"They have taken the rest of the
wounded into the other chambers," an-
swered the woman in the soft speech of
the Tecuhltli women, which somehow did
not suggest either softness or gentleness
in the speakers. A little while before, Va-
leria had seen this same woman stab a
Xotalanca woman through the breast and
stamp the eyeballs out of a wounded
Xotalanca man.

'"They will be carrying the corpses of
the dead down into the catacombs," she
added, "lest the ghosts escape into the
chambers and dwell there."

"Do you believe in ghosts?" asked Va-
leria.

"I know the ghost of Tolkemec dwells
in the catacombs," she answered with a
shiver. "Once I saw it, as I crouched in
a crypt among the bones of a dead queen.
It passed by in the form of an ancient
man with flowing white beard and locks,
and luminous eyes that blazed in the
darkness. It was Tolkemec; I saw him
living when I was a child and he was be-
ing tortured."

Her voice sank to a fearful whisper:
"Olmec laughs, but I know Tolkemec's
ghost dwells in the catacombs! They say
it is rats which gnaw the flesh from the

bones of the newly dead — but ghosts eat
flesh. Who knows but that "

She glanced up quickly as a shadow
fell across the couch. Valeria looked up
to see Olmec gazing down at her. The
prince had cleansed his hands, torso and
beard of the blood that had splashed
them; but he had not donned his robe,
and his great dark-skinned hairless body
and limbs renewed the impression of
strength bestial in its nature. His deep
black eyes burned with a more elemental
light, and there was the suggestion of a
twitching in the fingers that tugged at his
thick blue-black beard.

He stared fixedly at the woman, and
she rose and glided from the chamber.
As she passed through the door she cast
a look over her shoulder at Valeria, a
glance full of cynical derision and ob-
scene mockery.

"She has done a clumsy job," criticized
the prince, coming to the divan and bend-
ing over the bandage. "Let me see "

With a quickness amazing in one of
his bulk he snatched her sword and threw
it across the chamber. His next move was
to catch her in his giant arms.

Quick and unexpected as the move was,
she almost matched it; for even as he
grabbed her, her dirk was in her hand and
she stabbed murderously at his throat.
More by luck than skill he caught her
wrist, and then began a savage wrestling-
match. She fought him with fists, feet,
knees, teeth and nails, with all the
strength of her magnificent body and all
the knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting
she had acquired in her years of roving
and fighting on sea and land. It availed
her nothing against his brute strength.
She lost her dirk in the first moment of
contact, and thereafter found herself
powerless to inflict any appreciable pain
on her giant attacker.

The blaze in his weird black eyes did
not alter, and their expression filled het

344

WEIRD TALES

with fury, fanned by the sardonic smile
that seemed carved upon his bearded lips.
Those eyes and that smile contained all
the cruel cynicism that seethes below the
surface of a sophisticated and degenerate
race, and for the first time in her life Va-
leria experienced fear of a man. It was
like struggling against some huge elemen-
tal force; his iron arms thwarted her ef-
forts with an ease that sent panic racing
through her limbs. He seemed impervi-
ous to any pain she could inflict. Only
once, when she sank her white teeth sav-
agely into his wrist so that the blood
started, did he react. And that was to
buffet her brutally upon the side of the
head with his open hand, so that stars
flashed before her eyes and her head
rolled on her shoulders.

Her shirt had been torn open in the
struggle, and with cynical cruelty he
rasped his thick beard across her bare
breasts, bringing the blood to suffuse the
fair skin, and fetching a cry of pain and
outraged fury from her. Her convulsive
resistance was useless; she was crushed
down on a couch, disarmed and panting,
her eyes blazing up at him like the eyes
of a trapped tigress.

A moment later he was hurrying from
the chamber, carrying her in his arms.
She made no resistance, but the smolder-
ing of her eyes showed that she was un-
conquered in spirit, at least. She had not
cried out. She knew that Conan was not
within call, and it did not occur to her
that any in Tecuhltli would oppose their
prince. But she noticed that Olmec went
stealthily, with his head on one side as if
listening for sounds of pursuit, and he
did not return to the throne chamber. He
carried her through a door that stood op-
posite that through which he had entered,
crossed another room and began stealing
down a hall. As she became convinced
that he feared some opposition to the ab-

duction, she threw back her head and
screamed at the top of her lusty voice.

She was rewarded by a slap that half
stunned her, and Olmec quickened his
pace to a shambling run.

But her cry had been echoed, and twist-
ing her head about, Valeria, through the
tears and stacs that partly blinded her,
saw TechotI limping after them.

Olmec turned with a snarl, shifting the
woman to an uncomfortable and certainly
undignified position under one huge arm,
where he held her writhing and kicking
vainly, like a child.

"Olmec!" protested TechotI. "You can-
not be such a dog as to do this thing! She
is Conan's woman! She helped us slay
the Xotalancas, and "

Without a word Olmec balled his
free hand into a huge fist and
stretched the wounded warrior senseless
at his feet. Stooping, and hindered not
at all by the struggles and imprecations
of his captive, he drew Techotl's sword
from its sheath and stabbed the warrior
in the breast. Then casting aside the wea-
pon he fled on along the corridor. He
did not see a woman's dark face peer cau-
tiously after him from behind a hang-
ing. It vanished, and presently TechotI
groaned and stirred, rose dazedly and
staggered drunkenly away, calling Co-
nan's name.

Olmec hurried on down the corridor,
and descended a winding ivory staircase.
He crossed several corridors and halted at
last in a broad chamber whose doors were
veiled with heavy tapestries, with one ex-
ception — a heavy bronze door similar to
the Door of the Eagle on the upper floor.

He was moved to rumble, pointing to
it: "That is one of the outer doors of
Tecuhltli. For the first time in fifty years
it is unguarded. We need not guard it
now, for Xotalanc is no more,"

RED NAILS

345

"Thanks to Conan and me, you bloody
rogue!" sneered Valeria, trembling with
fury and the shame of physical coercion.
"You treacherous dog! Conan will cut
your throat for this!"

Olmec did not bother to voice his be-
lief that Conan's own gullet had already
been severed according to his whispered
command. He was too utterly cynical to
be at all interested in her thoughts or
opinions. His flame-lit eyes devoured her,
dwelling burningly on the generous ex-
panses of clear white flesh exposed where
her shirt and breeches had been torn in
the struggle.

"Forget Conan," he said thickly. "Ol-
mec is lord of Xuchotl. Xotalanc is no
more. There will be no more fighting.
We shall spend our lives in drinking and
love-making. First let us drink!"

He seated himself on an ivory table
and pulled her down on his knees, like a
dark-skinned satyr with a white nymph in
his arms. Ignoring her un-nymphhke pro-
fanity, he held her helpless with one
great arm about her waist while the other
reached across the table and secured a
vessel of wine.

"Drink!" he commanded, forcing it to
her lips, as she writhed her head away.

The liquor slopped over, stinging her
lips, splashing down on her naked breasts.

"Your guest does not like your wine,
Olmec," spoke a cool, sardonic voice.

Olmec stiffened; fear grew in his flam-
ing eyes. Slowly he swung his great head
about and stared at Tascela who posed
negligently in the curtained doorway,
one hand on her smooth hip. Valeria
twisted herself about in his iron grip, and
when she met the burning eyes of Tas-
cela, a chill tingled along her supple
spine. New experiences were flooding
Valeria's proud soul that night. Recently
she had learned to fear a man; now she
knew what it was to fear a woman.

Olmec sat motionless, a gray pallor

growing under his swarthy skin. Tascela
brought her other hand from behind her
and displayed a small gold vessel.

"I feared she would not like your wine,
Olmec," purred the princess, "so I
brought some of mine, some I brought
with me long ago from the shores of Lake
Zuad — do you understand, Olmec?"

Beads of sweat stood out suddenly on
Olmec's brow. His muscles relaxed, and
Valeria broke away and put the table be-
tween them. But though reason told her
to dart from the room, some fascination
she could not understand held her rigid,
watching the scene.

Tascela came toward the seated prince
with a swaying, undulating walk that was
mockery in itself. Her voice was soft,
slurringly caressing, but her eyes gleamed.
Her slim fingers stroked his beard lightly,

"You are selfish, Olmec," she crooned,
smiling. "You would keep our hand-
some guest to yourself, though you knew
I wished to entertain her. You are much
at fault, Olmec!"

The mask dropped for an instant; her
eyes flashed, her face was contorted and
with an appalling show of strength her
hand locked convulsively in his beard and
tore out a great handful. This evidence
of unnatural strength was no more terri-
fying than the momentary baring of the
hellish fury that raged under her bland
exterior.

Olmec lurched up with a roar, and
stood swaying like a bear, his mighty
hands clenching and unclenching.

"Slut!" His booming voice filled the
room. "Witch! She-devil! Tecuhltli
should have slain you fifty years ago! Be-
gone! I have endured too much from you!
This whtte-skinned wench is mine! Get
hence before I slay you!"

The princess laughed and dashed the
blood-stained strands into his face. Her
laughter was less merciful than the ring
of flint on steel.

346

WEIRD TALES

"Once you spoke otherwise, Olmec/*
she taunted. "Once, in your youth, you
spoke words of love. Aye, you were my
lover once, years ago, and because you
Joved me, you slept in my arms beneath
the enchanted lotus — and thereby put into
my hands the chains that enslaved you.
You know you cannot withstand me. You
know I have but to gaze into your eyes,
■with the mystic power a priest of Stygia
taught me, long ago, and you are power-
less, You remember the night beneath
the black lotus that waved above us,
stirred by no worldly breeze; you scent
again the unearthly perfumes that stole
and rose like a cloud about you to enslave
you. You cannot fight against me. You
are my slave as you were that night — as
you shall be so long as you shall live,
Olmec of Xuchotl!"

Her voice had sunk to a murmur like
the rippling of a stream running
through starlit darkness. She leaned close
to the prince and spread her long taper-
ing fingers upon his giant breast. His
eyes glazed, his great hands fell limply
to his sides.

With a smile of cruel malice, Tascela
lifted the vessel and placed it to his lips,

"Drink!"

Mechanically the prince obeyed. And
instantly the glaze passed from his eyes
and they were flooded with fury, compre-
hension and an awful fear. His mouth
gaped, but no sound issued. For an in-
stant he reeled on buckling knees, and
then fell in a sodden heap on the floor.

His fall jolted Valeria out of her pa-
ralysis. She turned and sprang toward the
door, but with a movement that would
have shamed a leaping panther, Tascela
was before her. Valeria struck at her with
her clenched fist, and all the power of her
supple body behind the blow. It would
have stretched a man senseless on the
floor. But with a lithe twist of her torso,

Tascela avoided the blow and caught the
pirate's wrist. The next instant Valeria's
left hand was imprisoned, and holding
her wrists together with one hand, Tas-
cela calmly bound them with a cord she
drew from her girdle. Valeria thought
she had tasted the ultimate in humilia-
tion already that night, but her shame at
being manhandled by Olmec was nothing
to the sensations that now shook her sup-
ple frame. Valeria had always been in-
clined to despise the other members of
her sex; and it was overwhelming to en-
counter another woman who could handle
her like a child. She scarcely resisted at
all when Tascela forced her into a chair
and drawing her bound wrists down be-
tween her knees, fastened them to the
chair.

Casually stepping over Olmec, Tascela
walked to the bronze door and shot the
bolt and threw it open, revealing a hall-
way without.

"Opening upon this hall," she re-
marked, speaking to her feminine captive
for the first time, "there is a chamber
which in old times was used as a torture
room. When we retired into Tecuhltli,
we brought most of the apparatus with
us, but there was one piece too heavy to
move. It is still in working order. I think
it will be quite convenient now,"

An understanding flame of terror rose
in Olmec's eyes. Tascela strode back to
him, bent and gripped him by the hair.

"He is only paralyzed temporarily,"'
she remarked conversationally. "He can
hear, think, and feel — aye, he can feel
very well indeed!"

With which sinister observation she
started toward the door, dragging the
giant bulk with an ease that made the
pirate's eyes dilate. She passed into the
hall and moved down it without hesita-
tion, presently disappearing with her cap-
tive into a chamber that opened into it,

RED NAILS

«G

and whence shortly thereafter issued the
clank of iron.

Valeria swore softly and tugged vain-
ly, with her legs braced against the chair.
The cords that confined her were appar-
ently unbreakable.

Tascela presently returned alone; be-
hind her a muffled groaning issued from
the chamber. She closed the door but did
not bolt it. Tascela was beyond the grip
of habit, as she was beyond the touch of
other human instincts and emotions.

Valeria sat dumbly, watching the wo-
man in whose slim hands, the pirate
realized, her destiny now rested.

Tascela grasped her yellow locks and
forced back her head, looking imperson-
ally down into her face. But the glitter
in her dark eyes was not impersonal.

"I have chosen you for a great honor,"
she said, "You shall restore the youth of
Tascela. Oh, you stare at that! My ap-
pearance is that of youth, but through
my veins creeps the sluggish chill of ap-
proaching age, as I have felt it a thousand
times before. I am old, so old I do not
remember my childhood. But I was a
girl once, and a priest of Stygia loved me,
and gave me the secret of immortality
and youth everlasting. He died, then — ■
some said by poison. But I dwelt in my
palace by the shores of Lake Zuad and
the passing years touched me not. So at
last a king of Stygia desired me, and my
people rebelled and brought me to this
land. Olmec called me a princess. I am
not of royal blood. I am greater than a
princess. I am Tascela, whose youth your
own glorious youth shall restore."

Valeria's tongue clove to the roof of
her mouth. She sensed here a mystery
darker than the degeneracy she had an-
ticipated.

The taller woman unbound the Aqui-
lonian's wrists and pulled her to her feet.
It was not fear of the dominant strength
that lurked in the princess" limbs that

made Valeria a helpless, quivering cap-
tive in her hands. It was the burning,
hypnotic, terrible eyes of Tascela.

7. He Comes from the Dark

W E

ell, I'm a Kushite!"
Conan glared down at the man
on the iron rack.

"What the devil are you doing on that
thing?"

Incoherent sounds issued from behind
the gag and Conan bent and tore it away,
evoking a bellow of fear from the cap-
tive; for his action caused the iron ball
to lurch down until it nearly touched the
broad breast.

"Be careful, for Set's sake!" begged
Olmec.

"What for?" demanded Conan, "Do
you think I care what happens to you? I
only wish I had time to stay here and
watch that chunk of iron grind your guts
out. But I'm in a hurry. Where's Va-
leria?"

"Loose me!" urged Olmec, "I will
tell you all!"

"Tell me first."

"Never!" The prince's heavy jaws set
stubbornly.

"All right." Conan seated himself on
a near-by bench. "I'll find her myself,
after you've been reduced to a jelly. I
believe I can speed up that process by
twisting my sword-point around in your
ear," he added, extending the weapon
experimentally.

"Wait!" Words came in a rush from
the captive's ashy lips. "Tascela took her
from me. I've never been anything but
a puppet in Tascela's hands."

"Tascela?" snorted Conan, and spat.
"Why, the filthy "

"No, no!" panted Olmec. "It's worse
than you think. Tascela is old — centuries
old. She renews her life and her youth
by the sacrifice of beautiful young wo-

348

WEIRD TALES

men. That's one thing that has reduced
the clan to its present state. She will
draw the essence of Valeria's life into her
own body, and bloom with fresh vigor
a.id beauty."

"Are the doors locked?" asked Conan,
thumbing his sword edge.

"Aye! But I know a way to get into
Tecuhltli. Only Tascela and I know, and
she thinks me helpless and you slain.
Free me and I swear I will help you res-
cue Valeria. Without my help you can-
not win into Techultli; for even if you
tortured me into revealing the secret, you
couldn't work it. Let me go, and we will
steal on Tascela and kill her before she
can work magic — before she can fix her
eyes on us. A knife thrown from behind
will do the work. 1 should have killed
her thus long ago, but I feared that with-
out her to aid us the Xotalancas would
overcome us. She needed my help, too;
that's the only reason she let me live this
long. Now neither needs the other, and
one must die. I swear that when we
have slain the witch, you and Valeria
shall go free without harm. My people
will obey me when Tascela is dead."

Conan stooped and cut the ropes that
held the prince, and Olmec slid cautious-
ly from under the great ball and rose,
shaking his head like a bull and mutter-
ing imprecations as he fingered his lac-
erated scalp. Standing shoulder to shoul-
der the two men presented a formidable
picture of primitive power. Olmec was
as tall as Conan, and heavier; but there
was something repellent about the Tla-
zitlan, something abysmal and monstrous
that contrasted unfavorably with the
clean-cut, compact hardness of the Cim-
merian. Conan had discarded the rem-
nants of his tattered, blood-soaked shirt,
and stood with his remarkable muscular
development impressively revealed. His
great shoulders were as broad as those of
Olmec, and more cleanly outlined, and

his huge breast arched with a more im-
pressive sweep to a hard waist that
lacked the paunchy thickness of Olmec's
midsection. He might have been an im-
age of primal strength cut out of bronze.
Olmec was darker, but not from the
burning of the sun. If Conan was a fig-
ure out of the dawn of Time, Olmec was
a shambling, somber shape from the
darkness of Time's predawn.

"Lead on," demanded Conan. "And
keep ahead of me. I don't trust you any
farther than I can throw a bull by the
tail."

Olmec turned and stalked on ahead of
him, one hand twitching slightly as it
plucked at his matted beard.

Olmec did not lead Conan back to
the bronze door, which the prince
naturally supposed Tascela had locked,
but to a certain chamber on the border
of Tecuhltli.

"This secret has been guarded for half
a century," he said. "Not even our own
clan knew of it, and the Xotalancas never
learned. Tecuhltli himself built this se-
cret entrance, afterward slaying the slaves
who did the work; for he feared that he
might find himself locked out of his own
kingdom some day because of the spite
of Tascela, whose passion for him soon
changed to hate. But she discovered the
secret, and barred the hidden door against
him one day as he fled back from an un-
successful raid, and the Xotalancas took
him and flayed him. But once, spying
upon her, I saw her enter Tecuhltli by
this route, and so learned the secret."

He pressed upon a gold ornament in
the wall, and a panel swung inward, dis-
closing an ivory stair leading upward.

"This stair is built within the wall,"
said Olmec. "It leads up to a tower upon
the roof, and thence other stairs wind
down to the various chambers. Hasten!"

"After you, comrade!" retorted Conan

RED NAILS

349

satirically, swaying his broadsword as he
spoke, and Olmec shrugged his shoulders
and stepped onto the staircase. Conan in-
stantly followed him, and the door shut
behind them. Far above a cluster of fire-
jewels made the staircase a well of dusky
dragon-light.

They mounted until Conan estimated
that they were above the level of the
fourth floor, and then came out into a
cylindrical tower, in the domed roof of
which was set the bunch of fire-jewels
that lighted the stair. Through gold-
barred windows, set with unbreakable
crystal panes, the first windows he had
seen in Xuchotl, Conan got a glimpse of
high ridges, domes and more towers,
looming darkly against the stars. He was
looking across the roofs of Xuchotl,

Olmec did not look through the win-
dows. He hurried down one of the sev-
eral stairs that wound down from the
tower, and when they had descended a
few feet, this stair changed into a narrow
corridor that wound tortuously on for
some distance. It ceased at a steep flight
of steps leading downward. There Ol-
mec paused.

Up from below, muffled, but unmis-
takable, welled a woman's scream, edged
with fright, fury and shame. And Conan
.recognized Valeria's voice.

In the swift rage roused by that cry,
and the amazement of wondering what
peril could wring such a shriek from
Valeria's reckless lips, Conan forgot Ol-
mec. He pushed past the prince and start-
ed down the stair. Awakening instinct
brought him about again, just as Olmec
struck with his great mallet-like fist. The
blow, fierce and silent, was aimed at the
base of Conan's brain. But the Cim-
merian wheeled in time to receive the
buffet on the side of his neck instead.
The impact would have snapped the ver-
tebras of a lesser man. As it was, Conan
swayed backward, but even as he reeled

he dropped his sword, useless at such
close quarters, and grasped Olmec's ex-
tended arm, dragging the prince with him
as he fell. Headlong they went down the
steps together, in a revolving whirl of
limbs and heads and bodies. And as they
went Conan's iron fingers found and
locked in Olmec's bull-throat.

The barbarian's neck and shoulder felt
numb from the sledge-like impact of Ol-
mec's huge fist, which had carried all the
strength of the massive forearm, thicje
triceps and great shoulder. But this did
not affect his ferocity to any appreciable
extent. Like a bulldog he hung on grim-
ly, shaken and battered and beaten against
the steps as they rolled, until at last they
struck an ivory panel-door at the bottom
with such an impact that they splintered it
its full length and crashed through its
ruins, But Olmec was already dead, for
those iron fingers had crushed out his life
and broken his neck as they fell.

Conan rose, shaking the splinters
from his great shoulder, blinking
blood and dust out of his eyes.

He was in the great throneroom. There
were fifteen people in that room besides
himself. The first person he saw was
Valeria. A curious black altar stood be-
fore the throne-dais. Ranged about it,
seven black candles in golden candle-
sticks sent up oozing spirals of thick green
smoke, disturbingly scented. These spir-
als united in a cloud near the ceiling,
forming a smoky arch above the altar.
On that altar lay Valeria, stark naked, her
white flesh gleaming in shocking contrast
to the glistening ebon stone. She was not
bound. She lay at full length, her arms
stretched out above her head to their full-
est extent. At the head of the altar knelt
a young man, holding her wrists firmly.
A young woman knelt at the other end of
the altar, grasping her ankles. Between
them she could neither rise nor move.

550

WEIRD TALES

Eleven men and women of Tecuhltll
knelt dumbly in a semicircle, watching
the scene with hot, lustful eyes.

On the ivory throne-seat Tascela lolled.
Bronze bowls of incense rolled their
spirals about her; the wisps of smoke
curled about her naked limbs like caress-
ing fingers. She could not sit still; she
squirmed and shifted about with sensuous
abandon, as if finding pleasure in the
contact of the smooth ivory with her sleek
flesh.

The crash of the door as it broke be-
neath the impact of the hurtling bodies
caused no change in the scene. The kneel-
ing men and women merely glanced in-
curiously at the corpse of their prince and
at the man who rose from the ruins of
the door, then swung their eyes greedily
back to the writhing white shape on the
black akar. Tascela looked insolently at
him, and sprawled back on her seat,
laughing mockingly,

"Slut!" Conan saw red. His hands
clenched into iron hammers as he started
for her. With his first step something
clanged loudly and steel bit savagely into
his leg. He stumbled and almost fell,
checked in his headlong stride. The jaws
of an iron trap had closed on his leg,
with teeth that sank deep and held. Only
the ridged muscles of his calf saved the
bone from being splintered. The ac-
cursed thing had sprung out of the
smoldering floor without warning. He
saw the slots now, in the floor where the
jaws had lain, perfectly camouflaged.

"Fod!" laughed Tascela. "Did you
think I would not guard against your
possible return? Every door in this cham-
ber is guarded by such traps. Stand there
and watch now, while I fulfill the destiny
of your handsome friend! Then I will de-
cide y*ur own."

Oman's hand instinctively sought his
belt, only to encounter an empty scab-
bard. His sword was on the stair behind

him. His poniard was lying back in the
forest, where the dragon had torn it from
his jaw. The steel teeth in his leg were
like burning coals, but the pain was not
as savage as the fury that seethed in his
soul. He was trapped, like a wolf. If he
had had his sword he would have hewn
off his leg and crawled across the floor to
slay Tascela. Valeria's eyes rolled toward
him with mute appeal, and his own help-
lessness sent red waves of madness surg-
ing through his brain.

Dropping on the knee of his free leg,
he strove to get his fingers between the
jaws of the trap, to tear them apart by
sheer strength. Blood started from be-
neath his finger nails, but the jaws fitted
dose about his leg in a circle whose seg-
ments jointed perfectly, contracted until
there was no space between his mangled
flesh and the fanged iron. The sight of
Valeria's naked body added flame to the
fire of his rage.

Tascela ignored him. Rising languidly
from her seat she swept the ranks of her
subjects with a searching glance, and
asked: "Where are Xamec, Zlanath and
Tachic?"

"They did not return from the cata-
combs, princess," answered a man. "Like
the rest of us, they bore the bodies of the
slain into the crypts, but they have not
returned. Perhaps the ghost of Tolkemec
took them."

"Be silent, fool!" she ordered harshly,
"The ghost is a myth."

She came down from her dais, playing
with a thin gold-hilted dagger. Her eyes
burned like nothing on the hither side of
hell. She paused beside the altar and
spoke in the tense stillness.

"Your life shall make me young, white
woman!" she said. "I shall lean upon
your bosom and place my lips over yours,
and slowly — ah, slowly! — sink this blade
through your heart, so that your life, flee-
ing your stiffening body, shall enter mine,

RED NAILS

351

making me bloom again with youth and
with life everlasting!"

Slowly, like a serpent arching toward
its victim, she bent down through the
writhing smoke, closer and closer over the
now motionless woman who stared up
into her glowing dark eyes — eyes that
grew larger and deeper, blazing like black
moons in the swirling smoke.

The kneeling people gripped their
hands and held their breath, tense for the
bloody climax, and the only sound was
Conan's fierce panting as he strove to tear
his leg from the trap.

All eyes were glued on the altar and
the white figure there; the crash of a
thunderbolt could hardly have broken
the spell, yet it was only a low cry that
shattered the fixity of the scene and
brought all whirling about — a low cry,
yet one to make the hair stand up stiffly
on the scalp. They looked, and they saw.

Framed in the door to the left of the
dais stood a nightmare figure. It was a
man, with a tangle of white hair and a
matted white beard that fell over his
breast. Rags only partly covered his gaunt
frame, revealing half-naked limbs
strangely unnatural in appearance. The
skin was not like that of a normal human.
There was a suggestion of scaliness about
it, as if the owner had dwelt long under
conditions almost antithetical to those
conditions under which human life or-
dinarily thrives. And there was nothing
at all human about the eyes that blazed
from the tangle of white hair. They were
great gleaming disks that stared un-
winkingly, luminous, whitish, and with-
out a hint of normal emotion or sanity.
The mouth gaped, but no coherent words
issued — only a high-pitched tittering.

4< *T«olkemec!" whispered Tascela,

-■- livid, while the others crouched in

speechless horror. "No myth, then, no

ghost! Set! You have dwelt for twelve

years in darkness! Twelve years among
the bones of the dead! What grisly food
did you find? What mad travesty of life
did you live, in the stark blackness of
that eternal night? I see now why Xamec
and Zlanath and Tachic did not return
from the catacombs — and never will re-
turn. But why have you waited so long
to strike? Were you seeking something,
in the pits? Some secret weapon you
knew was hidden there? And have you
found it at last?"

That hideous tittering was Tolkemec's
only reply, as he bounded into the room
with a long leap that carried him over
the secret trap before the door — by
chance, or by some faint recollection of
the ways of Xuchotl. He was not mad,
as a man is mad. He had dwelt apart
from humanity so long that he was no
longer human. Only an unbroken thread
of memory embodied in hate and the
urge for vengeance had connected him
with the humanity from which he had
been cut off, and held him lurking near
the people he hated. Only that thin
string had kept him from racing and
prancing off for ever into the black cor-
ridors and realms of the subterranean
world he had discovered, long ago.

"You sought something hidden!" whis-
pered Tascela, cringing back. "And you
have found it! You remember the feud!
After all these years of blackness, you
remember!"

For in the lean hand of Tolkemec now
waved a curious jade-hued wand, on the
end of which glowed a knob of crimson
shaped like a pomegranate. She sprang
aside as he thrust it out like a spear, and
a beam of crimson fire lanced from the
pomegranate. It missed Tascela, but the
woman holding Valeria's ankles was in
the way. It smote between her shoulders.
There was a sharp crackling sound and
the ray of fire flashed from her bosom
and struck the black altar, with a snap-

352

WEIRD TALES

ping of blue sparks. The woman top-
pled sidewise, shriveling and withering
like a mummy even as she fell.

Valeria rolled from the altar on the
other side, and started for the opposite
wall on all fours. For hell had burst
loose in the throneroom of dead Olmec.

The man who had held Valeria's hands
was the next to die. He turned to run,
but before he had taken half a dozen
steps, Tolkemec, with an agility appalling
in such a frame, bounded around to a
position that placed the man between him
and the altar. Again the red fire-beam
flashed and the Tecuhltli rolled lifeless
to the floor, as the beam completed its
course with a burst of blue sparks against
the altar.

Then began slaughter. Screaming in-
sanely the people rushed about the cham-
ber, caroming from one another, stum-
bling and falling. And among them
Tolkemec capered and pranced, dealing
death. They could not escape by the
doors; for apparently the metal of the
portals served like the metal-veined stone
altar to complete the circuit for whatever
hellish power flashed like thunderbolts
from the witch-wand the ancient waved
in his hand. When he caught a man or a
woman between him and a door or the
altar, that one died instantly. He chose
no special victim. He took them as they
came, with his rags flapping about his
wildly gyrating limbs, and the gusty
echoes of his tittering sweeping the room
above the screams. And bodies fell like
falling leaves about the altar and at the
doors. One warrior in desperation rushed
at him, lifting a dagger, only to fall be-
fore he could strike. But the rest were
like crazed cattle, with no thought for re-
sistance, and no chance of escape.

The Jast Tecuhltli except Tascela
had fallen when the princess reached
the Cimmerian and the girl who had
taken refuge beside him, Tascela beat

and touched the floor, pressing a design
upon it. Instantly the iron jaws released
the bleeding limb and sank back into the
floor.

"Slay him if you can!" she panted, and
pressed a heavy knife into his hand. "I
have no magic to withstand him!"

With a grunt he sprang before the
women, not heeding his lacerated leg in
the heat of the fighting-lust. Tolkemec
was coming toward him, his weird eyes
ablaze, but he hesitated at the gleam of
the knife in Conan's hand. Then began a
grim game, as Tolkemec sought to circle
about Conan and get the barbarian be-
tween him and the altar or a metal door,
while Conan sought to avoid this and
drive home his knife. The women
watched tensely, holding their breath.

There was no sound except the rustle
and scrape of quick-shifting feet. Tolke-
mec pranced and capered no more. He
realized that grimmer game confronted
him than the people who had died
screaming and fleeing. In the elemental
blaze of the barbarian's eyes he read an
intent deadly as his own. Back and forth
they weaved, and when one moved the
other moved as if invisible threads bound
them together. But all the time Conan
was getting closer and closer to his
enemy. Already the coiled muscles of his
thighs were beginning to flex for a
spring, when Valeria cried out. For a
fleeting instant a bronze door was in line
with Conan's moving body. The red line
leaped, searing Conan's flank as he twist-
ed aside, and even as he shifted he hurled
the knife. Old Tolkemec went down,
truly slain at last, the hilt vibrating on his
breast.

Tascela sprang — not toward Conan,
but toward the wand where it shim-
mered like a live thing on the floor. But
as she leaped, so did Valeria, with a dag-
ger snatched from a dead man, and the
W. T,— 6

RED NAILS

}5»

blade, driven with all the power of the
pirate's muscles, impaled the princess of
Tecuhltii so that the point stood out be-
tween her breasts. Tascela screamed once
and fell dead, and Valeria spurned the
body with her heel as it fell.

"I had to do that much, for my own
self-respect!" panted Valeria, facing Co-
nan across the limp corpse.

"WelL this cleans up the feud," he
grunted. "It's been a hell of a night!
Where did these people keep their food?
I'm hungry."

"Yon need a bandage on that leg."
Valeria ripped a length of silk from a
hanging and knotted it about her waist,
then tote off some smaller strips which
she bound efficiently about the bar-
barian's lacerated limb.

"I can walk on it," he assured her.

"Let's begone. It's dawn, outside this
infernal city. I've had enough of
Xuchotl. It's well the breed exterminated
itself. I don't want any of their accursed
jewels. They might be haunted."

"There is enough clean loot in the
world for you and me," she said,
straightening to stand tall and splendid
before him.

The old blaze came back in his eyes,
and this time she did not resist as he
caught her fiercely in his arms.

"It's a long way to the coast," she said
presently, withdrawing her lips from his.

"What matter?" he laughed. "There's
nothing we can't conquer. We'll have
our feet on a ship's deck before the
Stygians open their ports for the trading
season. And then we'll show the world
what plundering means!"

[THE END]

R. E. H.

T,— 7

Died June 11, 1936
By R. H. BARLOW

Conan, the warrior king, lies stricken dead
Beneath a sky of cryptic stars; the lute
That was his laughter stilled, and sadly mute

Upon the chilling earth his youthful head.

There sounds for him no more the clamorous fray.
But dirges now, where once the trumpet loud:
About him press old memories for shroud,

And ended is the conflict of the day.

Death spilled the blood of him who loved the fight
As men love mistresses, and fought it well —
His fair young flesh is marble where he fell

With broken sword that vanquished all but Night;
And as of mythic kings our words must speak
Of Conan now, who roves where dreamers seek.

The

®

oors of Death

By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE

r A strange and curious story is this, about a banker whose only feat.

was that he might be buried alive, like his

grandfather before him

A HEAVY stillness hung about the
great halls and richly furnished
' rooms of Judson McMasters' res-
idence, and even seemed to extend out
over the velvet lawns, the shrub-lined
walks and sun-blotched reaches under the
lacy elms and somber maples.

Biggs glided about the sick-chamber
like a specter, apparently striving to keep
busy, while he cast countless furtive, un-
easy glances at the heavy figure under
the white sheets. An odor of drugs and
fever tainted the air, and a small walnut
table near the flushed sleeper was laden
with the familiar prescription bottle, tum-
bler and box of powders. On the wall
behind the table, near the head of the
bed, hung a small oil-painting of Na-
poleon.

The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised
himself painfully and slowly, and at-
tempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new
position. At the first movement Biggs
was a shadow at the bedside, deftly man-
ipulating the coverings and gently aiding
the sick man with a tenderness born of
long service and deep affection. As the
massive gray head sank into the fluffed
pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by
a faint glint of thankfulness. Then they
closed again and the once powerful body
relaxed.

With a pitiful, wistful expression on

his aged face, the faithful Biggs stood

helplessly peering at the sick man until

hot tears began to course down his fur-

354

rowed cheeks, and he turned hastily
away.

"Biggs!"

The voice, still strong and command-
ing, cut the semi-gloom like a knife.

Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy
curtains still more securely over the win-
dows, whirled as though he had touched
a live wire, and in a flash was across the
great room and beside the bed.

"Did you call, sir?" His voice quav-
ered.

"No" — a faint twinkle lighted the
sick man's eyes — "I just spoke."

"Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed
Biggs, "you are better, sir."

"Biggs, 1 want some air and sunshine."

"But the doctor, sir "

"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to
pass out I want to see where I'm going."

"Oh, but sir," expostulated the old
servant, as he parted the curtains and
partially opened a casement window, "I
wish you wouldn't say that, sir."

"I believe in facing a situation scjuare-
ly, Biggs. My father and grandfather
died from this family malady, and I
guess I'm headed over the same route."

"Please, sir," entreated Biggs.

"Biggs, I want to ask you a question."

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you a Christian?"

"I try to be, sir."

"Do you believe in death?"

Biggs was thoroughly startled and con*
fused.

'"Why — a — we all have to die, some-

THE DOORS OF DEATH

355

time, sir," he answered haltingly, not
knowing what else to say.

"But do we actually die?" insisted the
sufferer.

"Well, I hope — not yet," ventured
the old servant. "The doctor said "

"Forget the doctor," interposed Mc-
Masters. "Biggs, you have been in our
service since I was a lad, haven't you?"

Tears welled into the servant's eyes,
and his voice faltered.

"Fifty-six years, come next Novem-
ber," he answered.

"Well, let me tell you something, that
even in those fifty-six years you never
learned, Biggs. My grandfather was
buried alive!"

"Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs,
in horror.

"Absolutely," asserted the banker.

"Why — are you — how do you know,
sir?" in a hoarse whisper.

"My father built a family mausoleum
in the far corner of this estate, didn't

her

"Yes, sir — he hated burial in the earth,
sir, after reading a poem of Edgar Allan
Poe's, sir!"

"What poem was that, Biggs?"

"I don't recall the name of it, but I
remember the line," faltered Biggs.

"What was it?"

"Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's
talk about something cheerful."

"Not until we're through with this
discussion, Hiram."

The sound of his given name re-
stored Biggs somewhat, for the
banker resorted to it only on occasions
when he shared his deepest confidences
with his old houseman.

"Well, the line goes, 'Soft may the
worms about him creep,' sir."

A slight shudder seemed to run
through McMasters' body. Then after a

tomb-like silence, "Good reason for
building the mausoleum."

"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."

"Well," with an apparent effort,
"when they exhumed my grandfather's
remains to place them in the new vault,
the casket was opened, and "

"Oh, sir," cried Biggs, throwing out
a trembling, expostulating hand, but the
banker went on, relentlessly.

" the body was turned over, on its

side, with the left knee drawn up part-
way."

"That's the way he always slept — in
life." Biggs' voice was a hollow whisper.

"And that's the reason my father, after
building himself a mausoleum, insisted
that his body be cremated," said McMas-
ters. "He took no chances."

Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to
the massive urn over the great fireplace
and rested there, fascinated.

"Hiram, where is heaven?"

Biggs' eyes flitted back to rest in sur-
prize upon the questioner.

"Why, up there, sir," pointing toward
the ceiling.

"Do you believe that the earth rotates
on its axis?"

"That's what I was taught in school,
sir."

"If that hypothesis is true, we are roll-
ing through space at the rate of about
sixteen miles a minute," figured the
banker. "Now you say heaven is up
there."

"Yes, sir."

"Biggs, what time is it?"

The servant glanced at the great clock
in the corner.

"Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time
for your medicine," in a voice full of
relief.

"Never mind the drugs," command-
ed McMasters, "until we finish our prob-
lem in higher mathematics. Now, if I
ask you where heaven is at midnight,

356

WEIRD TALES

which will be twelve hours from now,
where will you point," triumphantly.

"Why, up there," replied the bewil-
dered servant, again indicating the ceil-
ing.

"Then," cried McMasters, "you will
be pointing directly opposite from the
place you indicated a moment ago; for
by midnight the earth will have turned
approximately upside down. Do you get
my point?"

"Yes, sir," replied poor Biggs, thor-
oughly befuddled.

"Then where will heaven be at six
o'clock this evening?" fairly shouted the
sick man.

"Out there," replied the servant, hope-
lessly, pointing toward the window,

"And where will heaven be at six
o'clock in the morning?"

"Over there." And Biggs pointed a
trembling finger at the fireplace. Then,
"Oh, sir, let's not — the doctor "

"Hang the doctor," interrupted Mc-
Masters testily. "I've been thinking this
thing over, and I've got to talk about it
to someone."

"But don't you believe in a hereafter?"
queried Biggs, a horrible note of fear in
his pitiful voice.

For a moment the banker was silent;
the massive clock ticked solemnly on. A
coal toppled with a sputter and flare in
the fireplace.

"Yes, Hiram," in a thoughtful voice,
"I suppose I do."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried
Biggs in very evident relief.

"Ah, if you could but tell me," con-
tinued the banker, "from whence we
come, and whither we go?"

"If I knew, sir, I'd be equal with the
Creator," answered Biggs with reverence.

"That's well said, Hiram, but it doesn't
satisfy me. I've made my place in the
world by getting to the root of things.
Ah, if I could only get a peek behind the

curtain, before I go — back-stage, you
know — mayhap I would not be afraid
to die," and his voice fell almost to a
whisper.

"The Great Director does not permit
the audience behind the footlights, un-
less he calls them," answered Biggs
whimsically, the ghost of a smile light-
ing up his troubled features.

"Another thing, Biggs, do you believe
those stories about Jonah, and Lazarus,
and the fellow they let down through a
hole in the roof to be healed?"

"I do, sir," with conviction.

"Do you understand how it was
done?" testily.

"Of course not, sir, being only a hu-
man."

"Then tell me, Hiram, when you can-
not see through it, how can you swallow
all this theology?"

"My faith, sir," answered Biggs, sim-
ply, raising his eyes with reverence.

At this, a quizzical smile came over
the sick man's face.

"In looking up, Hiram, don't forget,
since it is twelve-thirty, that we have
swung around four hundred and eighty
miles from the spot you originally desig-
nated as the location of the Pearly Gates."

"Oh, sir, I beg of you," remonstrated
the servant, "I cannot bear to have you
jest on such a — why, master!" he broke
off with a little cry, rushing to his bed-
side.

The quizzical smile on the banker's
face had suddenly faded, and his head
had fallen feebly back upon the pillow.

"Oh, why did he waste his strength
so?" cried Biggs, piteously, as with trem-
bling hands and tear-blurred eyes he
searched the little table for the smelling-
salts.

After a few breaths, the patient sighed
and opened his eyes wearily.

"My medicine, Hiram, and then I must
rest"

THE DOORS OF DEATH

357

At midnight, Biggs, dozing in a big
•A*- chair by the fire, was aroused by a
voice from the sick bed.

"Hiram."

"Yes, sir," scurrying to turn on a sub-
dued light.

"Where is heaven now?"

Noting the wan flicker of a smile, the
old servant pointed solemnly downward.

"You are a bright pupil," came in a
scarcely audible voice.

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you know, Biggs, 1 wish I had
led a different — a better life."

"You have been a good master, sir.
You have been kind, you have given lib-
erally to charity," Biggs defended him.

"Yes," cynically, "I have given liber-
ally to charity. But it has been no sac-
rifice."

'You have been a pillar in the
church," ventured Biggs.

"Yes," bitterly, "a stone pillar. I have
paid handsomely for my pew, and slept
peacefully through the sermons. I have
bought baskets of food for the poor at
Thanksgiving and Christmas time, only
to let others reap the happiness of giving
them away. 1 could have had so much
joy out of Christmas, if I would. I
could have been a jolly, rosy-cheeked
Santa Claus and gone to a hundred
homes, my arms loaded with gifts."

"True, sir, but you made that joy pos-
sible for others."

"When I should have known the thrill
of it myself. I have not really lived,
Hiram. To draw the sweets truly out of
life, one must humble himself and serve
his fellow men. Yes, the scales have fall-
en from my eyes, Hiram, But it is too
late, 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is
weak'."

"It doesn't seem right, sir," said Biggs
after a pause.

"What's that, Hiram?"

"Why, sir, that you should be stricken

down in the prime of life, just at a time
when you could mean so much to others,
while 1, old and useless, am permitted to
live on. But I am not finding fault with
Providence, sir," Biggs hastened to say;
"I just can't find the meaning of the
riddle, sir."

"Probably I've had my chance and
fumbled it, Biggs."

"Even so, sir, God is not vindictive,
according to my ideas. There surely is
some other solution. I'm still going to
pray that He will take me in your stead,
even if a miracle must be performed."

"So you have faith in your prayers, do
you, Biggs?"

"Yes, sir, if they are unselfish prayers.™

"That brand is rather scarce, I take
it," answered McMasters, but his tone
was reflective rather than sarcastic.

"Oh, sir, I wish you would pray as I
do. God would surely understand."

"Rather a queer request, Hiram. If
my life depends upon your death no pray-
er shall ever pass my lips."

"But, sir, I'm an old— "

"However," interrupted McMasters, "I
shall pray that if my life is spared in any;
other fashion, I will make full amends
for my years of indifference and neglect.
And, Hiram, no one knows hour much I
truly seek this divine dispensation. But
I have always scoffed at death-bed con-
fessions, and so my heart grows cold, for
I have no right to ask — now." Again,
wearily, "No right — now."

"Ah, master, God is plenteous in mer-
cy. If you but have the faith, sir, it shall
make you whole."

"Very good, had I lived as you have
lived, Biggs." Then, after a pause, "Still,
the cause is worthy, my heart is right
and I shall approach the Throne. May
God be merciful unto me, a sinner."

"I hope it is not too late yet," faltered
"Oh, if God would only call me

358

WEIRD TALES

in four stead, that you might still do the
good work that you find it in your heart
to do, how gladly would I go."
A deep sigh was his only answer.

ALONG silence was finally broken by
the sick man. But when he spoke,
his voice was so strange and uncanny
that the servant hastened dose and peered
anxiously into the fever-flushed face of
the sufferer.

"Hiram — I must tell you — a secret,"
came in a laborious, almost sepulchral,
whisper.

Biggs came closer.

"Bring a chair and sit down. I must
talk to you."

As the old servant again leaned for-
ward, the sufferer hesitated; then with an
obvious effort he began.

"Hiram, I am going to give you some
instructions which you must obey to the
letter. Will you promise to keep them?"

"I swear it, sir," with great earnest-
ness.

"Good! Now, if this fever seals my
lips and the doctor pronounces me
dead "

"Please, sir," Biggs broke in, tears
streaming down his furrowed cheeks, but
his master continued in the same sub-
dued voice, "Whatever happens, I am
not to be embalmed — do you hear me? —
not embalmed, but just laid away as I
am now."

"Yes, sir," in a choked voice, which
fully betrayed the breaking heart be-
hind it

"And now, Hiram, the rest of the
secret." He paused and beckoned Biggs
to lean closer.

"In my vault — in the mausoleum, I
have had an electric button installed.
That button connects with a silver bell.
Lift up that small picture of Napoleon,
there upon the wall."

His hands trembling as with the palsy,

Biggs reached out and lifted aside the
picture hanging near the head of the
bed, and there revealed the silver bell,
fitted into a small aperture in the wall.
Then, with a sob, he fell back into his
chair.

"Hiram" — in a whisper — "after they
bury me, you are to sleep in this bed."

With a cry, the old man threw out a
horrified, expostulating hand. Catching
it feverishly, the banker half raised him-
self in bed.

"Don't you understand?" he cried
fiercely. "I may not be dead after all.
Remember grandfather! And Biggs — if
that bell rings, get help— quick!"

Suddenly releasing his hold, McMas-
ters fell back limply among the pillows.

All through the long night the faith-
^ ful Biggs maintained a sleepless
vigil, but the banker lay as immovable as
a stone. When the rosy-cheeked dawn
came peeping audaciously through the
casements, Biggs drew the heavy curtains
tightly shut once more.

Not until the doctor's motor whirled
away did the patient rouse from his leth-
argy.

Apparently strengthened by his deep
stupor he spoke, and Biggs stood instant-
ly beside him.

"What did the doctor say?"

Biggs hesitated.

"Out with it, I'm no chicken-hearted
weakling."

"Nothing much," admitted Biggs, sad-
ly. "He only shook his head very
gravely."

"He doesn't understand this family
malady any more than the old quack who
allowed my grandfather to be buried
alive," said McMasters almost fiercely.

Biggs shuddered and put a trembling
hand to his eyes.

"What ails me, Biggs?" almost plain-
tively. "No one knows. This fever has

THE DOORS OF DEATH

339

baffled the scientists for years. When you
fall into a comatose condition they call
it suspended animation. That's the best
thing they do — find names for diseases.
My family doctor doesn't have any more
of an idea about this malady than you
or I. The average physician is just a
guesser. He guesses you have a fever
and prescribes a remedy, hoping that it
will hit the spot. If it doesn't he looks
wise, wags his head — and tries something
else on you. Maybe it works and maybe
it doesn't. The only thing my guesser is
absolutely sure of is that if I live or if I
die, he will collect a princely fee for his
services."

Biggs remained statuesque during the
pause.

"Gad," McMasters broke out again
testily, "if I fiddled around in my bus-
iness like that I'd be a pauper in a
month."

"But the doctor says you're coming
On," ventured Biggs.

"Sure he does," answered the banker
with a sneer. "That's his stock in trade.
I know that line of palaver. Secretly, he
knows I am as liable to be dead as alive
when he comes again."

"Oh, sir, you aren't going to die!"

"Thafs what I'm afraid of, Biggs.
But they'll call me dead and go ahead
and embalm me and make sure of it"

"Oh, sir, I wish "

"Now remember, Biggs," broke in the
sick man, "shoot the first undertaker that
tries to put that mummy stuff in my
veins."

"I understand perfectly, sir," answered
Biggs, fearful lest the other's excitement
might again give him a turn for the
worse.

"I know I'm apparently going to pass
away. My father and grandfather both
bad this cussed virus in their veins, and

I don't believe either of them was dead
when he was pronounced so!"

"Well, if by any chance — that is, if
you," began Biggs desperately, "if you
are apparently — dead — why not have
them keep your body here in the house
for a time?"

"Convention, formality, custom, hide-
bound law!" the banker fairly frothed.
"The health authorities would come here
with an army and see that I was buried.
No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there,
all quiet and secure, good ventilation,
electric lights, like a pullman berth — and
a push-button. That precludes all noto-
riety. It's secret and safe. The electrician
who installed the apparatus died four
years ago. So you and I, alone, possess
this knowledge."

"Don't you think someone else should
know of it too? Your attorney, or "

"No, Biggs. If I really am dead I
don't want anyone to write up my ec-
centricities for some Sunday magazine
sheet. And if I do come back, then it
will be time to tell the gaping public
about my cleverness."

"I wish you weren't so — so cold-blood-
ed about it all, sir."

"I have always hit straight from the
shoulder, Hiram, and I'm facing this
death business as I'd face any other prop-
osition. I'm not ready to cash in, and if
I can cheat the doctors, undertakers, law-
yers, heirs, and chief mourners for a few
more years, I'm going to do it. And
don't forget poor old granddad. He
might have been up and about yet had be
but used my scheme."

Biggs turned away, sick at heart. 11
was too terrible beyond words. To
him his religion was as essential as daily
bread. Death was the culmination of
cherished belief and constant prayer. As
his years declined he had faced the inev-
itable day with simple faith that when the

360

WEIRD TALES

summons came he would go gladly, like
him "who wraps the drapery of his
couch about him and lies down to pleas-
ant dreams." With throbbing heart he
listened for another torrent of words that
would still further stab his sensitive soul;
for he had loved and revered his master
from his youth up.

But no words came. He wheeled
about The massive head had fallen limp-
ly among the pillows. Pallid lips were
trying to form sentences without result.
Then the great body seemed to subside
immeasurably deeper into the covers and
a death-like stillness fell upon the room.

Intuitively feeling that his master was
worse than at any previous relapse, Biggs
made every effort to revive him, gently
at first, and then by vigorously shaking
and calling to him in a heart-broken,
piteous voice. But to no avail. The heavy
figure looked pallid and corpse-like un-
der the snowy sheets.

Loag hours dragged by, and still the
lonely old servant sat mutely beside the
bed, only aroused, at last, by the peremp-
tory, measured call of the telephone bell.

"Yes," said Biggs in a quavering
voice. "Oh yes, Doctor Meredith, Mas-
ter's resting easy. Don't think you'll
need to come until tomorrow."

*TB keep them away as long as I can,"
he muttered, as he slipped back to his
vigil. 'Xjod grant — maybe hell come
back — and take up the work of the Mas-
ter, so long delayed. Oh God! If Thou
woukkt only take me in his stead!"

Sleeping fitfully, Biggs sat dumbly
through an interminable night, but the
new day brought no reassuring sign from
the inert form. The stillness was appall-
ing. The other servants were quartered
in a distant part of the mansion and only
came when summoned. Again Biggs as-
sured the physician that he could gain
nothing by calling, and another awful

night found him, ashen and distraught,
at the bedside. Sometime in the still
watches he swooned and kindly nature
patched up his shredded nerves, before
consciousness once more aroused him.
But the strain was more than he could
bear. So when the anxious specialist
came, unbidden, he found a shattered
old watchman who broke down complete-
ly and babbled forth the whole myste-
rious tale, concealing nothing but the
secret of the tomb.

In a coffin previously made to order,
they laid the unembalmed remains of
Judson McMasters in the family mauso-
leum, and the world which had felt his
masterful presence for so many years
paused long enough to lay a costly trib-
ute on his bier and then went smoothly
on its way.

Not so with the faithful Biggs. En-
sconced in his master's bedroom, he
nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled
with the jangling of innumerable electric
bells. And when — on the tenth night,
after he had been somewhat reassured
that all was well — he was suddenly
awakened by a mad, incessant ringing
from the hidden alarm, a deathly weak-
ness overcame him and it was some time
before he was able to drag his palsied
body from the bed. With fumbling,
clumsy fingers he tried to hasten, but it
was many minutes before he tottered,
half dressed, out of the room. And as
he did so, his heart almost stood still,
then mounted to his throat as if to choke
him.

"Biggs!" — a voice — McMaster's voice
was calling.

He staggered to the head of the wide,
massive stairway and looked down. There
stood the banker, pale, emaciated, but
smiling.

And then, as from an endless distance,
came more words:

"I forgot to tell you that I had a trap-

THE DOORS OF DEATH

$61

doot in the end of the casket. When you
didn't answer the bell, I found I could
come alone."

With an inarticulate cry, Biggs
stretched out his trembling arms.

"My Master, I am coming now."
Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched
feebly at the rail and plunged headlong
to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, life-
less form.

Vhe r

ecret of Kralits

By HENRY KUTTNER

A story of the shocking revelation that came to the
twenty-first Baron Kralitz

I AWOKE from profound sleep to
find two black-swathed forms stand-
mg silently beside me, their faces
pale blurs in the gloom. As I blinked to
deal my sleep-dimmed eyes, one of them
beckoned impatiently, and suddenly I
realized the purpose of this midnight
summons. For years I had been expecting
it, ever since my father, the Baron Kra-
litz, had revealed to me the secret and
the corse that hung over our ancient
house. And so, without a word, I rose
and followed my guides as they led me
along the gloomy corridors of the castle
that had been my home since birth.

As I proceeded there rose up in my
mind the stern face of my father, and in
my ears rang his solemn words as he
told me of the legendary curse of the
House of Kralitz, the unknown secret that
was imparted to the eldest son of each
generation — at a certain time.

"When?" I had asked my father as he
lay oa his death-bed, fighting back the
approach of dissolution.

"When you are able to understand,"
he had told me, watching my face in-

tently from beneath his tufted white
brows. "Some are told the secret sooner
than others. Since the first Baron Kralitz
the secret has been handed down "

He clutched at his breast and paused.
It was fully five minutes before he had
gathered his strength to speak again in
his rolling, powerful voice. No gasping,
death-bed confessions for the Baron Kra-
litz!

He said at last, "You have seen the
ruins of the old monastery near the vil-
lage, Franz. The first Baron burnt it and
put the monks to the sword. The Abbot
interfered too often with the Baron's
whims. A girl sought shelter and the
Abbot refused to give her up at the
Baron's demand. His patience was at an
end — ycai know the tales they still tell
about him.

"He slew the Abbot, burned the mon-
astery, and took the girl. Before he died
the Abbot cursed his slayer, and cursed
his sons for unborn generations. And it
is the nature of this curse that is the
secret of our house.

"I may not tell you what the curse is.

362

WEIRD TALES

Do not seek to discover it before it is re-
velled to you. Wait patiently, and in due
time you will be taken by the warders of
the secret down the stairway to the under-
ground cavern. And then you will learn
the secret of Kralitz."

As the last word passed my father's
lips he died, his stern face still set in its
harsh lines.

Deep in my memories, I had not
noticed our path, but now the dark
forms of my guides paused beside a gap
in the stone flagging, where a stairway
which I had never seen during my wan-
derings about the castle led into subter-
ranean depths. Down this stairway I was
conducted, and presently I came to realize
that there was light of a sort — a dim,
phosphorescent radiance that came from
no recognizable source, and seemed to be
less actual light than the accustoming of
my eyes to the near-darkness.

I went down for a long time. The
stairway turned and twisted in the rock,
and the bobbing forms ahead were my
only relief from the monotony of the in-
terminable descent. And at last, deep
underground, the long stairway ended,
and I gazed over the shoulders of my
guides at the great door that barred my
path. It was roughly chiseled from the
solid stone, and upon it were curious
and strangely disquieting carvings, sym-
bols which I did not recognize. It swung
open, and I passed through and paused,
staring about me through a gray sea of
mist.

I stood upon a gentle slope that fell
away into the fog-hidden distance, from
which came a pandemonium of muffled
bellowing and high-pitched, shrill squeak-
ings vaguely akin to obscene laughter.
Dark, half-glimpsed shapes swam into
sight through the haze and disappeared
again, and great vague shadows swept
overhead on silent wings. Almost beside

me was a long rectangular table of stone,
and at this table two score of men were
seated, watching me from eyes that
gleamed dully out of deep sockets. My
two guides silently took their places
among them.

And suddenly the thick fog began to
lift. It was swept raggedly away on the
breath of a chill wind. The far dim
reaches of the cavern were revealed as the
mist swiftly dissipated, and I stood silent
in the grip of a mighty fear, and,
strangely, an equally potent, unaccount-
able thrill of delight. A part of my mind
seemed to ask, "What horror is this?"
And another part whispered, "You know
this place!"

But I could never have seen it before.
If I had realized what lay far beneath
the castle I could never have slept at
night for the fear that would have ob-
sessed me. For, standing silent with con-
flicting tides of horror and ecstasy racing
through me, I saw the weird inhabitants
of the underground world.

Demons, monsters, unnamable things!
Nightmare colossi strode bellowing
through the murk, and amorphous gray
things like giant slugs walked upright on
stumpy legs. Oeatures of shapeless soft
pulp, beings with flame-shot eyes scat-
terred over their misshapen bodies like
fabled Argus, writhed and twisted there
in the evil glow. Winged things that
were not bats swooped and fluttered in
the tenebrous air, whispering sibilantly —
whispering in human voices.

Far away at the bottom of the slope 1
could see the chill gleam of water, a hid-
den, sunless sea. Shapes mercifully al-
most hidden by distance and the semi-
darkness sported and cried, troubling the
surface of the lake, the size of which I
could only conjecture. And a flapping
thing whose leathery wings stretched like
a tent above my head swooped and
hovered for a moment, staring with flam-

THE SECRET OF KRALITZ

36$

ing eyes, and then darted off and was
lost in the gloom.

Aad all the while, as I shuddered with
fear and loathing, within me was this
evil glee — this voice which whispered,
"You know this place! You belong here!
Is it not good to be home?"

I glanced behind me. The great door
had swung silently shut; and escape was
impossible. And then pride came to my
aid. 1 was a Kralitz, And a Kralitz
would not acknowledge fear in the face
of the devil himself!

I stepped forward and confronted the
warders, who were still seated re-
garding me intently from eyes in which a
smoldering fire seemed to burn. Fighting
down an insane dread that I might find
before me an array of fleshless skeletons,
I stepped to the head of the table, where
there was a sort of crude throne, and
peeted closely at the silent figure on my
right.

It was no bare skull at which I gazed,
but a bearded, deadly-pale face. The
curved, voluptuous lips were crimson,
looking almost rouged, and the dull eyes
stared through me bleakly. Inhuman
agony had etched itself in deep lines on
the white face, and gnawing anguish
smoldered in die sunken eyes. I cannot
hope to convey the utter strangeness, the
atmosphere of unearthliness that sur-
rounded him, almost as palpable as the
fetid tomb-stench that welled from his
dark garments. He waved a black-
swathed arm to the vacant seat at the
head of the table, and I sat down.

This nightmare sense of unreality! I
seemed to be in a dream, with a hidden
part of my mind slowly waking from
sleep into evil life to take command of
my faculties. The table was set with old-
fashioned goblets and trenchers such as
had not been used for hundreds of years.
There was meat on the trenchers, and red

liquor in the jeweled goblets. A heady,
overpowering fragrance swam up into my
nostrils, mixed with the grave-smell of
my companions and the musty odor of a
dank and sunless place.

Every white face was turned to me,
faces that seemed oddly familiar, al-
though I did not know why. Each face
was alike in its blood-red, sensual lips
and its expression of gnawing agony, and
burning black eyes like the abysmal pits
of Tartarus stared at me until I felt the
short hairs stir on my neck. But — I was
a Kralitz! I stood up and said boldly in
archaic German that somehow came
familiarly from my lips, "I am Franz,
twenty-first Baron Kralitz. What do you
want with me?"

A murmur of approval went around
the long table. There was a stir. From
the foot of the board a huge bearded man
arose, a man with a frightful scar that
made the left side of his face a horror of
healed white tissue. Again the odd thrill
of familiarity ran through me; I had seen
that face before, and vaguely I remem-
bered looking at it through dim twilight.

The man spoke in the old guttural
German. "We greet you, Franz, Baron
Kralitz. We greet you and pledge you,
Franz— and we pledge the House of Kra-
litz!"

With that he caught up the goblet be-
fore him and held it high. All along the
long table the black-swathed ones arose,
and each held high his jeweled cup, and
pledged me. They drank deeply, savor-
ing the liquor, and I made the bow cus-
tom demanded. I said, in words that
sprang almost unbidden from my mouth :

"I greet you, who are the warders of
the secret of Kralitz, and I pledge you in
return."

All about me, to the farthermost reach-
es of the dim cavern, a hush fell, and
the bellows and howlings, and the insane

364

WEIRD TALES

tittering of the flying things, were no
longer heard. My companions leaned ex-
pectantly toward me. Standing alone at
the head of the board, I raised my goblet
and drank. The liquor was heady, ex-
hilarating, with a faintly brackish flavor.

And abruptly I knew why the pain-
racked, ruined face of my companion had
seemed familiar; I had seen it often
among the portraits of my ancestors, the
frowning, disfigured visage of the found-
er of the House of Kralitz that glared
down from the gloom of the great hall.
In that fierce white light of revelation I
knew my companions for what they were;
I recognized them, one by one, remem-
bering their canvas counterparts. But
there was a change! Like an impalpable
veil, the stamp of ineradicable evil lay on
the tortured faces of my hosts, strangely
altering their features, so that I could not
always be sure I recognized them. One
pale, sardonic face reminded me of my
father, but I could not be sure, so mon-
strously altered was its expression.

I was dining with my ancestors — the
House of Kralitz!

My cup was still held high, and I
drained it, for somehow the grim revela-
tion was not entirely unexpected. A
strange glow thrilled through my veins,
and I laughed aloud for the evil delight
that was in me. The others laughed too,
a deep-throated merriment like the bark-
ing of wolves — tortured laughter from
men stretched on the rack, mad laughter
in hell! And all through the hazy cav-
ern came the clamor of the devil's brood!
Great figures that towered many spans
high rocked with thundering glee, and
the flying things tittered slyly overhead.
And out over the vast expanse swept the
wave of frightful mirth, until the half-
seen things in the black waters sent out
bellows that tore at my eardrums, and the
unseen roof far overhead sent back roar-
ing echoes of the clamor.

And I laughed with them, laughed in-
sanely, until I dropped exhausted into my
seat and watched the scarred man at the
other end of the table as he spoke.

"You are worthy to be of our com-
pany, and worthy to eat at the same
board. We hcve pledged each other, and
you are one of us; we shall eat together."

And we fell to, tearing like hungry
beasts at the succulent white meat in the
jeweled trenchers. Strange monsters
served us, and at a chill touch on my arm
I turned to find a dreadful crimson
thing, like a skinned child, refilling my
goblet. Strange, strange and utterly blas-
phemous was our feast. We shouted and
laughed and fed there in the hazy light,
while all around us thundered the evil
horde. There was hell beneath Castle
Kralitz, and it held high carnival this
night.

Presently we sang a fierce drinking-
song, swinging the deep cups back
and forth in rhythm with our shouted
chant. It was an archaic song, but the
obsolete words were no handicap, for I
mouthed them as though they had been
learned at my mother's knee. And at the
thought of my mother a trembling and a
weakness ran through me abruptly, but I
banished it with a draft of the heady
liquor.

Long, long we shouted and sang and
caroused there in the great cavern, and
after a time we arose togetner and
trooped to where a narrow, high-arched
bridge spanned the tenebrous waters of
the lake. But I may not speak of what
was at the other end of the bridge, nor
of the unnamable things that I saw — and
did! I learned of the fungoid, inhuman
beings that dwell on far cold Yuggoth,
of the cydopean shapes that attend un-
sleeping Cthulhu in his submarine city,
of the strange pleasures that the followers
of leprous, subterranean Yog-Sothoth may

THE SECRET OF KRALITZ

365

possess, and I learned, too, of the unbe-
lievable manner in which Iod, the Source,
is worshipped beyond the outer galaxies,
I plumbed the blackest pits of hell and
came back — laughing. I was one with the
rest of those dark warders, and I joined
them in the saturnalia of horror until the
scarred man spoke to us again.

"Our time grows short," he said, his
scarred and bearded white face like a
gargoyle's in the half-light. "We must
depart soon. But you are a true Kralitz,
Franz, and we shall meet again, and feast
again, and make merry for longer than
you think. One last pledge!"

I gave it to him. "To the House of
Kralitz! May it never fall!"

And with an exultant shout we drained
the pungent dregs of the liquor.

Then a strange lassitude fell upon me.
With the others I turned my back on the
cavern and the shapes that pranced and
bellowed and crawled there, and I went
up through the carved stone portal. We
filed up the stairs, up and up, endlessly,
until at last we emerged through the gap-
ing hole in the stone flags and proceed-
ed, a dark, silent company, back through
those interminable corridors. The sur-
roundings began to grow strangely famil-
iar, and suddenly I recognized them.

We were in the great burial vaults
below the castle, where the Barons Kra-
litz were ceremoniously entombed. Each
Baron had been placed in his stone casket
in his separate chamber, and each cham-
ber lay, like beads on a necklace, adjacent
to the next, so that we proceeded from
the farthermost tombs of the early Barons
Kralitz toward the unoccupied vaults. By
immemorial custom, each tomb lay bare,
an empty mausoleum, until the time had
come for its use, when the great stone
coffin, with the memorial inscription
carved upon it, would be carried to its
place. It was 6tting, indeed, for the
secret of Kralitz to be hidden here.

Abruptly I realized that I was alone,
save for the bearded man with the dis-
figuring scar. The others had vanished,
and, deep in my thoughts, I had not
missed them. My companion stretched
out his black-swathed arm and halted my
progress, and I turned to him question-
ingly. He said in his sonorous voice, "I
must leave you now. I must go back to
my own place." And he pointed to the
way whence we had come.

I nodded, for I had already recognized
my companions for what they were. I
knew that each Baron Kralitz had been
laid in his tomb, only to arise as a mon-
strous thing neither dead nor alive, to
descend into the cavern below and take
part in the evil saturnalia. I realized, too,
that with the approach of dawn they had
returned to their stone coffins, to lie in a
death-like trance until the setting sun
should bring brief liberation. My own
occult studies had enabled me to recog-
nize these dreadful manifestations.

I bowed to my companion and would
have proceeded on my way to the upper
parts of the castle, but he barred my
path. He shook his head slowly, his scar
hideous in the phosphorescent gloom.

I said, "May I not go yet?"

He stared at me with tortured, smol-
dering eyes that had looked into hell it-
self, and he pointed to what lay beside
me, and in a flash of nightmare realiza-
tion I knew the secret of the curse of Kra-
litz. There came to me the knowledge
that made my brain a frightful thing in
which shapes of darkness would ever
swirl and scream; the dreadful compre-
hension of when each Baron Kralitz was
initiated into the brotherhood of blood. I
knew — / knew — that no coffin had ever
been placed unoccupied in the tombs, and
I read upon the stone sarcophagus at my
feet the inscription that made my doom
known to me — my own name, "Franz,
twenty- first Baron Kralitz."

WtlRD JTi

RtPRINT

v>reat Keinplats
" Experiment

By A. CONAN DOY1E

OF ALL the sciences which have
puzzled the sons of men, none
had such an attraction for the
learned Professor von Baumgarten as
those which relate to psychology and the
ill-defined relations between mind and
matter. A celebrated anatomist, a pro-
found chemist, and one of the first physi-
ologists in Europe, it was a relief for him
to turn from these subjects and bring his
varied knowledge to bear upon the study
of the soul and the mysterious relation-
ship of spirits. At first, when as a young
man he began to dip into the secrets of
mesmerism, his mind seemed to be
wandering in a strange land where all
was chaos and darkness, save that here
and there some great unexplainable and
disconnected fact loomed out in front of
him. As the years passed, however, and
as the worthy professor's stock of knowl-
edge increased, for knowledge begets
knowledge as money bears interest, much
which had seemed strange and unaccount-
able began to take another shape in his
eyes. New trains of reasoning became

3«

familiar to him, and he perceived con-
necting links where all had been incom-
prehensible and startling. By experi-
ments which extended over twenty years,
he obtained a basis of facts upon which
it was his ambition to build up a new
exact science which should embrace mes-
merism, spiritualism, and all cognate sub-
jects. In this he was much helped by his
intimate knowledge of the more intri-
cate parts of animal physiology which
treat of nerve currents and the working
of the brain; for Alexis von Baumgarten
was regius professor of physiology at the
University of Keinplatz, and had all the
resources of the laboratory to aid him
in his profound researches.

Professor von Baumgarten was tall
and thin, with a hatchet-face and steet-
gray eyes, which were singularly bright
and penetrating. Much thought had fur-
rowed his forehead and contracted his
heavy eyebrows, so that he appeared to
wear "a perpetual frown, which often
misled people as to his character; for
though astute he was tender-hearted. He

THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT

367

was popular among the students, who
would gather round him after his lec-
tures and listen eagerly to his strange
theories. Often he would call for volun-
teers from among them in order to con-
duct some experiment, so that eventually
there was hardly a lad in the class who
had not, at one time or another, been
thrown into a mesmeric trance by his
professor.

Of all these young devotees of science
there was none who equaled in enthusi-
asm Fritz von Hartmann. It had often
seemed strange to his fellow students that
wild, reckless Fritz, as dashing a young
fellow as ever hailed from the Rhine-
lands, should devote the time and trouble
which he did in reading up abstruse
works and in assisting the professor in
his strange experiments. The fact was,
however, that Fritz was a knowing and
long-headed fellow. Months before, he
had lost his heart to young Elise, the
blue-eyed, yellow-haired daughter of the
lecturer. Although he had succeeded in
learning from her lips that she was not
indifferent to his suit, he had never
dared to announce himself to her family
as a formal suitor. Hence he would have
found it a difficult matter to see his young
lady had he not adopted the expedient
of making himself useful to the profes-
sor. By this means he frequently was
asked to the old man's house, where he
willingly submitted to be experimented
upon in any way as long as there was a
chance of his receiving one bright glance
from the eyes of Elise or one touch of
her little hand.

Young Fritz von Hartmann was a
handsome lad enough. There were broad
acres, too, which would descend to him
when his father died. To many he
would have seemed an eligible suitor;
but Madam frowned upon his presence
in the house, and lectured the professor
at times on his allowing such a wolf to

prowl around their lamb. To tell the
truth, Fritz had an evil name in Kein-
platz. Never was there a riot or duel,
or any other mischief afoot, but the
young Rhinelander figured as a ring-
leader in it. No one used more free
and violent language, no one drank
more, no one played cards more habitual-
ly, no one was more idle, save in the one
solitary subject. No wonder, then, that
the good Frau Projessorin gathered her
jraulein under her wing, and resented
the attentions of such a mauvah sttjet. As
to the worthy lecturer, he was too much
engrossed by his strange studies to form
an opinion upon the subject one way or
the other.

For many years there was one ques-
tion which had continually obtruded
itself upon his thoughts. All his experi-
ments and his theories turned upon a
single point. A hundred times a day the
professor asked himself whether it was
possible for the human spirit to exist
apart from the body for a time and then
to return to it once again. When the
possibility first suggested itself to him
his scientific mind had revolted from it.
It clashed too violently with preconceived
ideas and the prejudices of his early
training. Gradually, however, as he pro-
ceeded farther and farther along the
pathway of original research, his mind
shook off its old fetters and became ready
to face any conclusion which could
reconcile the facts. There were many
things which made him believe that it
was possible for mind to exist apart
from matter. At last it occurred to him
that by a daring and original experiment
the question might be definitely decided.
"It is evident," he remarked in his
celebrated article upon invisible entities,
which appeared in the Keinplatz
Wochenlkhe Medkalschrift about this
time, and which surprized the whole

368

WEIRD TALES

scientific world — "it is evident that under
certain conditions the soul or mind does
separate itself from the body. In the
case of a mesmerized person, the body
lies in a cataleptic condition, but the
spirit has left it. Perhaps you reply that
the soul is there, but in a dormant con-
dition. I answer that this is not so, other-
wise how can one account for the condi-
tion of clairvoyance, which has fallen
into disrepute through the knavery of
certain scoundrels, but which can easily
be shown to be an undoubted fact?

"I have been able myself, with a
sensitive subject, to obtain an accurate
description of what was going on in
another room or another house. How
can such knowledge be accounted for on
any hypothesis save that the soul of the
subject has left the body and is wander-
ing through space? For a moment it is
recalled by the voice of the operator and
says what it has seen, and then wings its
way once more through the air. Since
the spirit is by its very nature invisible,
we cannot see these comings and goings,
but we see their effect in the body of
the subject, now rigid and inert, now
struggling to narrate impressions which
could never have come to it by natural
means.

"There is only one way which I can
see by which the fact can be demon-
strated. Although we in the flesh are
unable to see these spirits, yet our own
spirits, could we separate them from the
body, would be conscious of the presence
of others. It is my intention, therefore,
shortly to mesmerize one of my pupils. I
shall then mesmerize myself in a manner
which has become easy to me. After that,
if my theory holds good, my spirit will
have no difficulty in meeting and com-
muning with the spirit of my pupil, both
being separated from the body. I hope
to be able to communicate the result of
this interesting experiment in an early

number of the Keinplalz Wocbenlicln
Medicalscbrtft."

When the good professor finally ful-
filled his promise, and published an ac-
count of what occurred, the narrative
was so extraordinary that it was received
with general incredulity. The tone of
some of the papers was so offensive in
their comments upon the matter that the
angry savant declared that he would
never open his mouth again or refer to
the subject in any way — a promise which
he has faithfully kept. This narrative
has been compiled, however, from the
most authentic sources, and the events
cited in it may be relied upon as sub-
stantially correct.

It happened, then, that shortly after
the time when Professor von Baum-
garten conceived the idea of the above-
mentioned experiment, he was walking
thoughtfully homeward after a long day
in the laboratory, when he met a crowd
of roystering students who had just
streamed out from a beer-house. At the
head of them, half intoxicated and very
noisy, was young Fritz von Hartmann.
The professor would have passed them,
but his pupil ran across and intercepted
him.

"Heh! my worthy master," he said,
taking the old man by the sleeve, and
leading him down the road with him.
"There is something that I have to say
to you, and it is easier for me to say it
now, when the good beer is humming in
my head, than at another time."

"What is it, then, Fritz?" the physi-
ologist asked, looking at him in mild
surprize.

"I hear, mem Hen, that you are about
to do some wondrous experiment in
which you hope to take a man's soul out
of his body, and then to put it back again.
Is it not so?"

"It is true, Fritz."

W. T.— 7

THE GREAT KEINPLATC EXPERIMENT

3*9

"And have you considered, my dear
sir, that you may have some difficulty in
finding someone on whom to try this?
Potztaxsend! Suppose that the soul went
out and would not come back. That
would be a bad business. Who is to
take the risk?"

"But, Fritz," the professor cried, very
much startled by this view of the matter,
"I had relied upon your assistance in the
attempt. Surely you will not desert me.
Consider the honor and glory."

"Consider the fiddlesticks!" the stu-
dent cried angrily. "Am I to be paid
always thus? Did I not stand two hours
upon a glass insulator while you poured
electricity into my body? Have you not
stimulated my phrenic nerves, besides
ruining my digestion with a galvanic cur-
rent round my stomach? Four-and-thirty
times you ha% r e mesmerized me, and
what have I got from all this? Nothing.
And now you wish to take my soul
out, as you would take the works from
a watch. It is more than flesh and blood
can stand."

"Dear, dear!" the professor cried in
great distress. "That is very true, Fritz.
I never thought of it before. If you can
but suggest how I can compensate you,
you will find me ready and willing."

"Then listen," said Fritz, solemnly.
"If you will pledge your word that after
this experiment I may have the hand of
your daughter, then I am willing to assist
you; but if not, I shall have nothing to
do with it. These are my only terms."

"And what would my daughter say
to this?" the professor exclaimed, after a
pause of astonishment.

"Elise would welcome it," the young
man replied. "We have loved each other
long."

"Then she shall be yours," the physi-
ologist said with decision, "for you are a
good-hearted young man, and one of the
best neurotic subjects that I have ever
W. T.— 8

known — that is when you are not under
the influence of alcohol. My experiment
is to be performed upon the fourth of
next month. You will attend at the
physiological laboratory at twelve o'clock.
It will be a great occasion, Fritz. Von
Gruben is coming from Jena, and Hinter-
stein from Basle. The chief men of
science of all South Germany will be
there."

"I shall be punctual," the student
said, briefly; and so the two parted.

The professor did not exaggerate
when he spoke of the widespread
interest excited by his novel psycho-
physiological experiment. Long before
the hour had arrived the room was filled
with a galaxy of talent. Besides the
celebrities whom he had mentioned, there
had come from London the great Pro-
fessor Lurcher, who had just established
his reputation by a remarkable treatise
upon cerebral centers. Several great
lights of the Spiritualistic body had also
come a long distance to be present, as
had a Swedenborgian minister, who con-
sidered that the proceedings might throw
some light upon the doctrines of the
Rosy Cross.

There was considerable applause from
this eminent assembly upon the appear-
ance of Professor von Baumgarten and
his subject upon the platform. The lec-
turer, in a few well-chosen words, ex-
plained what his views were, and how he
proposed to test them.

"I hold," he said, "that when a person
is under the influence of mesmerism, his
spirit is for the time released from his
body, and I challenge anyone to put
forward any other hypothesis which will
account for the fact of clairvoyance. I
therefore hope that upon mesmerizing
my young friend here, and then putting
myself into a trance, our spirits may be
able to commune together, though our

370

WEIRD TALES

bodies lie still and inert. After a time
nature will resume her sway, our spirits
will return into our respective bodies,
and all will be as before. With your kind
permission, we shall now proceed to at-
tempt the experiment."

The applause was renewed at this
speech, and the audience settled down in
expectant silence. With a few rapid
passes the professor mesmerized the
young man, who sank back in his chair,
pale and rigid. He then took a bright
globe of glass from his pocket, and by
concentrating his gaze upon it and mak-
ing a strong mental effort, he succeeded
in throwing himself into the same condi-
tion. It was a strange and impressive
sight to see the old man and the young
sitting together in the same cataleptic
state. Whither, then, had their souls
fled? That was the question which pre-
sented itself to each and every one of
the spectators.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and
then fifteen, and then fifteen more, while
the professor and his pupil sat stiff and
stark upon the platform. During that
time not a sound was heard from the
assembled savants, but every eye was bent
upon the two pale faces, in search of the
first signs of returning consciousness.

Nearly an hour had elapsed before the
patient watchers were rewarded. A faint
flush came back to the cheeks of Pro-
fessor von Baumgarten. The soul was
coming back once more to its earthly
tenement. Suddenly he stretched out his
long thin arms, as one awaking from
sleep, and rubbing his eyes, stood up
from his chair and gazed about him as
though he hardly realized where he was.

"Tausend Teufel. 1 " he exclaimed, rap-
ping out a tremendous South German
oath, to the great astonishment of his
audience and to the disgust of the Swe-
denborgian. "Where the Henher am I
then, and what in thunder has occurred?

Oh, yes, I remember now. One of these
nonsensical mesmeric experiments. There
is no result this time, for I remember
nothing at all since I became unconscious;
so you have had all your long journeys
for nothing, my learned friends, and a
very good joke, too;" at which the regius
professor of physiology burst into a roar
of laughter and slapped his thigh in a
highly indecorous fashion.

The audience were so enraged at this
unseemly behavior on the part of their
host, that there might have been * con-
siderable disturbance, had it not been for
the judicious interference of young Fritz
von Hartmann, who had now recovered
from his lethargy. Stepping to the front
of the platform, the young man apolo-
gized for the conduct of his companion.

"I am sorry to say," he said, "that he
is a harum-scarum sort of fellow, al-
though he appeared so grave at the com-
mencement of this experiment. He is still
suffering from mesmeric reaction, and is
hardly accountable for his words. As to
the experiment itself, I do not consider
it to be a failure. It is very possible that
our spirits may have been communing in
space during this hour; but, unfortu-
nately, our gross bodily memory is distinct
from our spirit, and we cannot recall
what has occurred. My energies shall
now be devoted to devising some means
by which spirits may be able to recollect
what occurs to them in their free state,
and I trust that when I have worked this
out, I may have the pleasure of meeting
you all once again in this hall, and
demonstrating to you the result."

This address, coming from so young a
student, caused considerable astonishment
among the audience, and some were in-
dined to be offended, thinking that he
assumed rather too much importance.
The majority, however, looked upon him
as a young man of great promise, and
many comparisons were made a* they; left

THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT

371

the hall between his dignified conduct
and the levity of his professor, who dur-
ing the above remarks was laughing
heartily in a corner, by no means abashed
at the failure of the experiment.

Now although all these learned men
were filing out of the lecture-room under
the impression, that they had seen nothing
of note, as a matter of fact one of the
most wonderful things in the whole his-
tory of the world had just occurred before
their very eyes. Professor von Baumgar-
ten had been so far correct in his theory
that both his spirit and that of his pupil
had been for a time absent from his body.
But here a strange and unforeseen com-
plication had occurred. In their return
the spirit of Fritz von Hartmann had en-
tered into the body of Alexis von Baum-
garten, and that of Alexis von Baumgar-
ren had taken up its abode in the frame
of Fritz von Hartmann. Hence the slang
and scurrility which issued from the lips
of the serious professor, and hence also
the weighty words and grave statements
which felt from the careless student. It
was as unprecedented event, yet no one
knew of it, least of all those whom it con-
cerned.

THE body of the professor, feeling
conscious suddenly of a great dryness
about the back of the throat, sallied out
into the street, still chuckling to himself
over the result of tie experiment, for the
soul of Fritz within was reckless at the
thought of the bride whom he had won
so easily. His first impulse was to go up
to the house and see her, but on second
thoughts he came to the conclusion that
it would be best to stay until Madam
Baumgarten should be informed by her
husband of the agreement which had
been made. He therefore made his way
down to the Griiner Mann, which was
one of the favorite tryst ing-places of the
wilder students, and ran, boisterously

waving his cane in the air, into the little
parlor, where sat Spiegler and Muller,
and half a dozen other boon companions.

"Ha, ha! my boys," he shouted. "I
knew I should find you here. Drink up,
every one of you, and call for what you
like; I'm going to stand treat today."

Had the green man who is depicted
upon the sign-post of that well-known
inn suddenly marched into the room and
called for a bottle of wine, the students
could not have been more amazed than
they were by this unexpected entry of
their revered professor. They were so
astonished that for a minute or two they
glared at him in utter bewilderment with-
out being able to make any reply to his
hearty invitation.

"Dormer und Blitzen!" shouted the
professor, angrily. "What the deuce is
the matter with you, then? You sit there
like a set of stuck pigs staring at me.
What is it, then?"

"It is the unexpected honor," stam-
mered Spiegel, who was in the chair.

"Honor — rubbish!" said the professor,
testily. "Do you think that just because
I happen to have been exhibiting mes-
merism to a parcel of old fossils, I am
therefore too proud to associate with dear
old friends like you? Come out of that
chair, Spiegel, my boy, for I shall preside
now. Beer, or wine, or schnapps, my lads
— call for what you like, and put it all
down to me."

Never was there such an afternoon in
the Griiner Mann. The foaming flagons
of lager and the green-necked bottle of
Rhenish circulated merrily. By degrees
the students lost their shyness in the pres-
ence of their professor. As for him, he
shouted, he sang, he roared, he balanced
a long tobacco-pipe upon his nose, and
offered to run a hundred yards against
any member of the company. The kellner
and the bar-maid whispered to each other
outside the door their astonishment at

372

WEIRD TALES

such proceedings on the part of a regius
professor of the ancient university of
Keinplatz. They had still more to whis-
per about afterward, for the learned man
cracked the kellner's crown, and kissed
the bar-maid behind the kitchen door.

"Gentlemen," said the professor, stand-
ing up, albeit somewhat totteringly, at the
end of the table, and balancing his high,
old-fashioned wine-glass in his bony
hand, "I must now explain to you what
is the cause of this festivity."

"Hear! hear!" roared the students,
hammering their beer-glasses against the
table; "a speech, a speech — silence for a
speech!"

"The fact is, my friends," said the pro-
fessor, beaming through his spectacles,
"I hope very soon to be married."

"Married?" cried a student, bolder than
the others. "Is Madam dead, then?"

"Madam who?"

"Why, Madam von Baumgarten, of
course."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the professor; "I
can see, then, that you know all about
my former difficulties. No, she is not
dead, but I have reason to believe that
she will not oppose my marriage."

"That is very accommodating of her,"
remarked one of the company.

"In fact," said the professor, "I hope
that she will now be induced to aid me in
getting a wife. She and I never took to
each other very much; but now I hope
all that may be ended, and when I marry
she will come and stay with me."

"What a happy family!" exclaimed
some wag.

"Yes, indeed; and I hope you will
come to my wedding, all of you. I won't
mention names, but here is to my little
bride!" and the professor waved his glass
in the air.

"Here's to his little bride!" roared
the roysterers, with shouts of laughter.
"Here's her health. Sie soil I then —

hoch!" And so the fun waxed still more
fast and furious, while each young fellow
followed the professor's example, and
drank a toast to the girl of his heart

WHILE all this festivity had been go-
ing on at the Griiner Mann, a very
different scene had been enacted else-
where. Young Fritz von Hartmann, with
a solemn face and a reserved manner,
had, after the experiment, consulted and
adjusted some mathematical instruments;
after which, with a few peremptory words
to the janitors, he had walked out into
the street and wended his way slowly in
the direction of the house of the profes-
sor. As he walked he saw von Althaus,
the professor of anatomy, in front of him,
and quickening his pace he overtook him.

"I say, von Althaus," he exclaimed,
tapping him on the sleeve, "you were
asking me for some information the
other day concerning the middle coat of
the cerebral arteries. Now I find "

"Donnetwetter!" shouted von Althaus,
who was a peppery old fellow. "What
the deuce do you mean by your imperti-
nence? I'll have you up before the Aca-
demical Senate for this, sir;" with which
threat he turned on his heel and hurried
away.

Von Hartmann was much surprized at
this reception. "Ifs on account *t this
failure of my experiment," he said to
himself, and continued moodily on his
way.

Fresh surprizes were in store for him,
however. He was hurrying along when
he was overtaken by two students. Triese
youths, instead of raising their caps or
showing any other sign of respect, gave a
wild whoop of delight the instant that
they saw him, and rushing at hint, seized
him by each arm and commenced drag-
ging him along with them.

"Gott in Himmeir roared von Hart-
mann. "What is the meaning of this un-

WEIRD TALES

375

paralleled insult? Where are yon taking
me?"

"To crack a bottle of wine with us,"
said the two students. "Come along! That
is an invitation which you have never re-
fused/'

"I never heard of such insolence in my
life!" cried von Hartmann, "Let go my
arms! I shall certainly have you rusticated
for this. Let me go, I say!" and he kicked
furiously at his captors.

"Oh, if you choose to turn ill-tem-
pered, you may go where you like," the
students said, releasing him. 'We can do
very well without you."

"I know you! I'll pay you out!" said
von Hartmann furiously, and continued
in the direction which he imagined to be
his own home, much incensed at the two
episodes which had occurred to him on
the way.

Now, Madam von Baumgarten, who
was looking out of the window and won-
dering why her husband was late for din-
ner, was considerably astonished to see
the young student come stalking down
the road. As already remarked, she had
a great antipathy to him, and if ever he
ventured into the house it was on suffer-
ance, and under the protection of the pro-
fessor. Still more astonished was she,
therefore, when she beheld him undo the
wicket-gate and stride up the garden path
with the air of one who is master of the
situation. She could hardly believe her
eyes, and hastened to the door with all
her maternal instincts up in arms. From
the upper windows the fair Elise had also
observed this daring move upon the part
of her lover, and her heart beat quick
with mingled pride and consternation.

"Good-day, sir," Madam Baumgarten
remarked to the intruder, as she stood in
gloomy majesty in the open doorway.

"A very fine day indeed, Martha," re-
turned the other. "Now, don't stand
there like a statue of Juno, but bustle

push Bunon Tunmc

z^iELECTR IK SAVER

tTUBES,

* sajRVEEADss.4

I 9&2200 IMURS*

SAVE

w5oy.

DIRECT FROM
FACTORY

. :VERV WHERE, radio entiueJaste I

are praising this amaxingly beat " '
bigger, better, more powerful,
leotive 16-tube 6-baod radio. Out-

msiKiti&u

per forms S2O0 eete on point-ior-paint comparison. Before you

SeciJe, unite (or PlUSii «i>poca IftW catalog. Lt-ara how you o*»
■nee 504 by buying direct from the factory, V hy pay motet

74 ADVANCED 1937 FEATURES

Scoreanf ti 'ii'irnnfnalT^Tfr'T 1 " M I d west saper perf oraanmnnd an*ure
thrilling world-wide all-wave perloraiaueo. iou ctn iraiten Instantly
from American prog rem*... to Canadian, potion, amateur, cocjeicreiuij
airplane ami ship broad casta... to world's finest foreign program&i
rowerful Triple-Twin tubes ttwo tubes m onoi) give IS-tube rcsulfeu
Bx-ciiuict Eiactrik-Hactr cuts rtJio wattage eansuruDtien 50% ...reaulia
Id Midwest radios using no more current than ordinary
v, sets . . . enables them to operate on vol ten te
,ra- as 80 volts, Pu*l Button Pimnr Tig rvnin*
is made possible w)(b the Midwest automatic cutis
button tuning eyatem . . . doubling your ranis enjflvawnt;

30 DAYS FREE TRIAL!

Ha middlo men's profits to pay— yo u buy at wholenfe price
direct from factory — earing 80^ U>60%. As fettle wlOca
day pays for yonr U id west... and you can try
It on in yean- own bone on M days FREE .
trial. Yon are triply proteeted with:
iPoretgn Haoeption Quaraete*. One- Year J

•V -/ice 30-DAY 1RIAL OFFER if W
j2ate»; 40PAGE FOUR-CMUR?M CATUOG

MIDWEST RADIO CORPORATION

Ocpr. 0-37, CincFnnoli. Ohio
Wiiluiui chLgarjon an my part, tend m« your rww
FREE catalog and comptetc 'details of your liberal
JOday FREE trial offer. Tha » NOT an order.

Nome-

Address-
jjToww —

— aP

Gamblers Secrets Exposed

r Buet. BEAT THE GHBAT. 4 r

i card reailine aeerets.

White lot. Invisible Ink. Xnry-cscthrn. Know top cam, ir.ri,
lid without taking card off ton. Dice. Uievare, Piircen,
Maklrni uny point with dice. JUdMrtl expoied. Usee*. Hooey
making novelties. Quit losing. Win. fiend II for "Beit The
Cheat." JOHNSTON'S liOOHS, B*X HM-W, Bantu City,
Mn.

374

WEIRD TALES

about and get the dinner ready, for I am
well-nigh starved."

"Martha! Dinner!" ejaculated the lady,
failing back in astonishment

"Yes, dinner, Martha, dinner!" howled
von Hartmann, who was becoming irri-
table. "Is there anything wonderful in
that request when a man has been out all
day? Til wait in the dining-room. Any-
thing will do. Schinken, and sausage,
and prunes — any little thing that hap-
pens to be about. There you are, standing
staring again. Woman, will you or will
you not stir your legs?"

This last address, delivered with a per-
fect shriek of rage, had the effect of send-
ing good Madam Baumgarten flying
along the passage and through the kitch-
en, where she locked herself up in the
scullery and went into violent hysterics.
In the meantime von Hartmann strode
into the room and threw himself down
upon the sofa in the worst of tempers.

"Elise!" he shouted. "Confound the
girl! Elise!"

Thus roughly summoned, the young
lady came timidly downstairs and into
the presence of her lover.

"Dearest!" she cried, throwing her
arms round him, "I know this is all done
for my sake! It is a ruse in order to see
me."

Von Hartmann's indignation at this
fresh attack upon him was so great that
he became speechless for a minute from
rage, aad could only glare and shake his
fists, while he struggled in her embrace.
When he at last regained his utterance,
he ind*lged in such a bellow of passion
that the young lady dropped back, petri-
fied with fear, into an armchair.

"Never have I passed such a day in my
life," von Hartmann cried, stamping
upon the floor. "My experiment has
failed. Von Althaus has insulted me.
Two students have dragged me along the
public read. My wife nearly faints when

I ask her for dinner, and my daughter
flies at me and hugs me like a grizzly
bear."

"You are ill, dear," the young lady
cried. "Your mind is wandering. You
have not even kissed me once."

"No, and I don't intend to, either,"
von Hartmann said with decision. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why
don't you go and fetch my slippers, and
help your mother to dish the dinner?"

"And is it for this," Elise cried, bury-
ing her face in her handkerchief — -"is it
for this that I have loved you passionately
for upward of ten months? b it for this
that I have braved my mother's wrath?
Oh, you have broken my heart; I am sure
you have!" and she sobbed hysterically.

"I can't stand much more of this/"
roared von Hartmann furiously. "What
the deuce does the girl mean? What did
I do ten months ago which inspired you
with such a particular affection for me?
If you are really so very fond, you would
do better to run down and find the
schinken and some bread, instead of talk-
ing all this nonsense."

"Oh, my darling!" cried the unhappy
maiden, throwing herself into the arms
of what she imagined to be her lover,
"you do but joke in order to frighten your
little Elise."

Now it chanced that at the moment
of this unexpected embrace voa
Hartmann was still leaning back against
the end of the sofa, which, like much
German furniture, was in a somewhat
rickety condition. It also chanced that be-
neath this end of the sofa there stood a
tank full of water in which the physiolo-
gist was conducing certain experiments
upon the ova of fish, and which he kept
in his drawing-room in order to insure
an equable temperature. The additional
weight of the maiden, combined with the
impetus with which she hurled herself

WEIRD TALES

373

upon him, caused the precarious piece of
furniture to give way, and the body of the
unfortunate student was hurled backward
into the tank, in which his head and
shoulders were firmly wedged, while his
lower extremities flapped helplessly about
in the air. This was the last straw. Ex-
tricating himself with some difficulty from
his unpleasant position, von Hartmann
gave an inarticulate yell of fury, and
dashing out of the room, in spite of the
entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and
rushed off into the town, all dripping and
disheveled, with the intention of seeking
in some inn the food and comfort which
he could not find at home.

As the spirit of von Baumgarten, en-
cased in the body of von Hartmann,
strode down the winding pathway which
led down to the little town, brooding an-
grily over his many wrongs, he became
aware that an elderly man was approach-
ing him who appeared to be in an ad-

vanced state of intoxication. Von Hart-
mann waited by the side of the road and
watched this individual, who came stum-
bling along, reeling from one side of the
road to the other, and singing a student
song in a very husky and drunken voice.
At first his interest was merely excited by
the fact of seeing a man of so venerable
an appearance in such a disgraceful con-
dition, but as he approached nearer he
became convinced that he knew the other
well, though he could not recall when or
where he had met him. This impression
became so strong with him, that when the
stranger came abreast of him he stepped
in front of him and took a good look at
his features.

"Well, sonny," said the drunken man,
surveying von Hartmann, and swaying
about in front of him, "where the Henker
have I seen you before? I know you as
well as I know myself. Who the deuce
are you?"

niaiiiaiiiamiHHmuimniMBitiBinaiiiMiiviii

i

i

iBiiHiHimiimmiwiimniiMtmuuimniiic

SPECIAL MONEY-SAVTNG SUBSCRIPTION OFFER j

Olie YeCir 02 Uuuea @ 25c = S3.00-YOIJ SAVE 54c) $2.50 •

TWO Years M »•« @ 2Sc = ss.oo-you save $ioo) $4.00 §

Three Years w kMe. @ 25= = $9.00— yod save $4jk» 55.00

To any address in the United States or possessions

Central America. Cuba. Mexico. South America and Spain

= 1

For Canada. Newfoundland and Labrador add 25c a year extra far

i

I

postage. To all other countries add 50c a year extra tor postage.

■ £"*USE THIS COUPON FOR SUBSCRIBING" 1 '^ |

WEIRD TALES. 840 N. Michigan Ave.. Chicago, EL. U. S. A.

Enclosed find $.... _...for which please enter my subscription to

WEIRD TALES for. years to begin with the November issue.

Name . — .

Address. . — —

City

-State

iiniii«ia«;«iiKiiM«iiiniianwai<iwi«i«

»76

WEIRD TALES

"I »m Professor von Baumgarten,"
said the student. "May I ask who you
are? I am strangely familiar with your
features."

"Yen should never tell lies, young
man," said the other. "You're certainly
not the professor, for he is an ugly snuffy
old chap, and you are a big broad-shoul-
dered young fellow. As to myself, I am
Frica von Hartmann, at your service."

"That you certainly are not!" exclaimed
the body of von Hartmann. "You might
very well be his father. But hullo, sir,
are you aware that you are wearing my
sruds and my watch-chain?"

"Donnerwetter!" hiccuped the other.
"If those are not the trousers for which
my tailor is about to sue me, may I never
taste beer again!"

Now as von Hartmann, overwhelmed
by the many strange things which had
occurred to him that day, passed his hand
over his forehead and cast his eyes down-
ward, he chanced to catch the reflection
of his own face in a pool which the rain
had left upon the road. To his utter
astonishment he perceived that his face
was that of a youth, that his dress was
that of a fashionable young student, and
that in every way he was the antithesis of
die grave and scholarly figure in which
his mind was wont to dwell. In an in-
stant his active brain ran over the series
of events which had occurred and sprang
to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under
the blow.
' "Hmmel!" he cried, "I see it all. Our
souls are in the wrong bodies. I am you
and yoa are I. My theory is proved — hut
at what an expense! Is the most scholarly
mind in Europe to go about with this
frivolous exterior? Oh, the labors of a
lifetime ate ruined!" and he smote his
breast in his despair.

"I say," remarked the real von Hart-
mam from the body of the professor,
"I quite see the force of your remarks,

but don't go knocking my body about
like that. You received it in excellent
condition, but I perceive you have wet it
and bruised it, and spilled snuff over my
ruffled shirt-front"

"It matters little," the other said,
moodily. "Such as we are, so must we
stay. My theory is triumphantly proved,
but the cost is terrible."

"If I thought so," said the spirit of
the student, "it would be hard indeed.
What could I do with these stiff old
limbs, and how could I woo Elise and
persuade her that I was not her father?
No, thank heaven, in spite of the beer
which has upset me more than it ever
could upset my real self, I can see a way
out of it."

"How?" gasped the professor.

"Why, by repeating the experiment.
Liberate our souls once more, and the
chances are that they will find their waj
back into their respective bodies."

No drowning man could clutch
more eagerly at a straw than did
von Baumgarten's spirit at this sugges-
tion. In feverish haste he dragged his
own frame to the side of the road and
threw it into a mesmeric trance; he then
extracted the crystal ball from die pocket,
and managed to bring himself into the
same condition.

Some students and peasants who
chanced to pass during the next hour
were much astonished to see the worthy
professor of physiology and his favorite
student both sitting upon a very muddy
bank and both completely insensible. Be-
fore the hour was up quite a crowd had
assembled, and they were discussing the
advisability of sending for an ambulance
to convey the pair to a hospital, when the
learned savant opened his eyes and gazed
vacantly around him. For an instant he
seemed to forget how he had come there,
but next moment he astonished his audi-

WEIRD TALES

377

ence by waving his skinny arms above
his head and crying out in a voice of rap-
ture, "Goit sei gedemktt I am myself
again! I feel I am!" Nor was the amaze-
ment lessened when the student, spring-
ing to his feet, burst into the same cry,
and the two performed a sort of pas de
joie in the middle of the road.

For some time after that people had
some suspicion of the sanity of both the
actors in this strange episode. When the
professor published his experiences in the
Metticdscbrift as he had promised, he
was met by an intimation, even from his
colleagues, that he would do well to have
his mind cared for, and that another such
publication would certainly consign him
to a madhouse. The student also found
it wisest to be silent about the matter.

When the worthy lecturer returned
home that night he did not receive the
cordial welcome which he might have

looked for after his strange adventures.
On the contrary, he was roundly up-
braided by both his female relatives for
smelling of drink and tobacco, and also
for being absent while a young scapegrace
invaded the house and insulted its occu-
pants.

It was long before the domestic atmos-
phere of the lecturer's house resumed its
normal quiet, and longer still before the
genial face of von Hartmann was seen be-
neath its roof. Perseverance, however,
conquers every obstacle, and the student
eventually succeeded in pacifying the en-
raged ladies and in establishing himself
upon the old footing. He has now no
longer any cause to fear the enmity of
Madam, for he is Hauptmann von Hart-
mann of the Emperor's own Uhlans, and
his loving wife Elise has already pre-
sented him with two little Uhlans as a
visible sign and token of her affection.

BACK COPIES

Because of the many requests for back issues of Weird Tales, the publishers do their best
to keep a sufficient supply on hand to meet all demands. This magazine was established early
ja 1925 and there has been a steady drain on the supply of back copies ever since. At present,
we have the following back numbers on hand for sale:

laas

I93S

193*

Jan.

Jan.

Jan.

Feb.

Feb.

Feb.

Feb.

Feb.

Mar.

Mar.

Mar.

Mar.

A*r-

Apr.

Apr.

Apr.

Apr.

May

May

May

May

June

June

June -

June

July

July

July

July

Aug.

Aug.;

Aug.

Aug.

Sept.

Sept.

Sept.

Oct,

Oct.

Oct.

Nov.

Nov;

Nov.

Nov.

Dae.

Dee.

Dec.

Dec.

These back numbers contain many fascinating stories. If you are interested in obtaining
oar of the back copies on this list please hurry your order because we can not guarantee that
the list will be as complete as it now is within the next 30 days. Toe price on all back issues
is 23c per copy. Mail all orders to;

WEIRD

840 N. Michigan Ave.

TALES

Chicago, Illinois, U. S. A.

THE tragic death of Robert E. How-
ard has called forth a chorus of
praise from discerning critics who
have appreciated the genuine literary value
of his work. H. P. Lovecraft, one of the
acknowledged masters of weird fiction,
whose keenly analytical mind has started
many young writers on literary careers,
makes the following comment on Howard's
work: "Howard's death forms weird fic-
tion's worst blow since the passing of good
old Canevin [Henry S. Whitehead} in 1932.
Scarcely anybody else in the pulp field had
quite the driving zest and spontaneity of
Robert E. Howard. He put himself into
everything he wrote — and even when he
made outward concessions to pulp standards
he had a wholly unique inner force and
sincerity which broke through the surface
and placed the stamp of his personality on
the ultimate product. How he could sur-
round primal megalithic cities with an aura
of seon-old fear and necromancy! And his
recent Black Canaan (WT's best story in the
last three or so issues) is likewise magnifi-
cent in a more realistic way — reflecting a
genuine regional background and giving a
clutchingly powerful picture of the horror
that stalks through the moss-hung, shadow-
cursed, serpent-ridden swamps of the far-
ther South. Others' efforts seem pallid by
contrast. Weird fiction certainly has occasion
to mourn."

To which E. Hoffmann Price, the only
Weird Tales author who knew Howard
personally, adds: "I know of few people
whose sudden death would be such a savage
luck on the chin. Lovecraft says it is the
saddest blow to writers since the death of
Henry S. Whitehead — and I answer, saying,
'Be damned to writing — it's a lot worse blow
to anyone who knew Bob and his parents.'
Bob Howard was as complex and likable a
378

character as one would meet in many a long
day's march. There is going to be much
wailing among the fantasy fans, and just as
much among those who read only Howard's
vivid action stories in other books — bur the
heaviest of it is coming from those who met
him in his native territory."

Howard wrote his own epitaph shortly
before his death, when he typed the follow-
ing couplet, the second line of which is
taken from the well-known poem by Ernest
Dowson:

All fled — all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The Feast is over and the lamps expire.

Oman's Strange Lands

Irvin T. Gould, of Philadelphia, writes}
"It may be rather late to mention it, but
your May issue of Weird Tales is the best
collection of stories 1 have ever seen between
your front and back covers. Child of the
winds and The Room of Shadows top a
splendid collection of weird! tales. . . . Glad
to hear that Robert E. Howard is coming to
the fore with another Conan story. I was
afraid the rascally old barbarian was going
to sink down in slothful ease upon the
Aquilonian throne and not furnish R. E. H.
with any more weird adventure material, but
1 guess you can't keep that wild Cimmerian
blood quiet ; so more power to him. I can't
take enough space to give bouquets to all
that rate it, so I have just mentioned those
that have particularly impressed me. Bring
on that Conan story. I'm all agog. Couldn't
you prevail upon Mr. Howard to furnish us
a map of all those strange lands that have
felt the swish of that Gmmerian sword ? Or
would that be in keeping with a weird tale?
I leave it to you." [Mr. Howard p*ep*red a
map showing the strange lands visited by
Conan, when he wrote that superb weird

WEIRD TALES

379

novel. The Hour of the Dragon. — The
Editor.]

The Falling Method

Corwin Sti'ckney, Jr., of Belleville, New
Jersey, writes: "The July issue is excellent.
I rank it second only to the April issue when
rating the seven published so far this year.
Lost Paradise ana Necromancy in Naat are
in a virtual tie for this month's honors.
Moore is practically unbeatable, while Clark
Ashtoa Smith's work is always of the finest
quality. Since each of these two stories is so
different from the other, both in theme and
in the style in which it was written, I do
not undertake to evaluate one above the
other. Let it suffice to say that I enjoyed
both hugely, and would appreciate nothing
more than a story by each of them in each
issue. Ronal Kayser constructed a vivid, stir-
ring story in The Unborn. Seldom have I
read one more fascinating. Edmond Hamil-
ton disappointed me with When the World
Slept. It was entirely too obvious; I hadn't
read two pages before I had guessed the
story's outcome. I cannot at all understand
how this yarn can possibly be called weird.
It might pass — on a datk night — as science-
fiction. But weird fiction — never ! The other
tales are good, especially Loot of the Vam-
pire and The Return of Sarah Purcell. I
haven't yet read the new serial or the re-
print. . . . Peculiar thing: three of the vic-
tims in this month's stories — in The Return
of Sarah Purcell, The Unborn, and Kharu
Knows All, to be exact — 'got theirs' by way
of the falling method — either by jumping
out a window or by falling down a flight of
stairs, as in the case of Emma in The Re-
turn of Sarah Purcell. I wonder how many
discerning readers will notice that Tim
Cirewe (in Kharu Knows Alt) chose Kharu
as his new name because it and his real
name, Carewe, are phonetically alike."

French Phrases

Gertrude Hemken, of Chicago, contributes
the following comments: "Now I'm gonna
unload something from my mind that's been
rankling me for yars V yars. So often in
stories one runs across French .phrases, and it
h take* for granted the reader knows what
they mean, so no explanation is offered. All
well and good. However, when one uses a
spriakling of other foreign phrases, unless
the author offers translations immediately

LET ME TELL YOU

About your business, travel,
changes, matrimony. love affairs,
friends, enemies, lucky days and
many other Interesting and im-
portant affairs or your life as in-
dicated by astrology. Send for
your special Astral Reading. All
work strictly scientific, individual
and guaranteed satisfactory. FOR
MANY. YEARS PRXVATE AS-
TROLOGICAL ADVISER TO
ROYALTY and the ELITE. Write
same, address and date of birth
plainly. No money required, but
it you like send 20 cents (stamps;
No Coins), to help defray costs.
Address: PUNDIT TABORE, <Dept 42S-B). Upper
Forjett Street, BOMBAY VII, BRITISH INDIA.
Postage to India is Sc. _

Make easy money every day with fastest lulling line Of
MEN'S TIBS AND N'H'ELTiEM in America I Every man
j a prospect! Theae muveiaus nlue* SELL ON SIQHTI
No Rink" Guarantee assures satisfaction or money bask.
TJnliuatabla quality! Jjuaalns low prices! WE PAT
P03TAGK. Complete line of NEW FALL NECKWEAR
priced |1 to IB. 60 doaen. Alio Muffler, Tie and Hand-
ECTohief sots. OVER 100% PROFIT! Big ema Mrn-
irtes with Patented Slyda-On ready tied lies. Sena ■nm ■ ■■ ■
TODAY for Free Illustrated Dewriptl.e Catalog- and pHKE
FREE SAMPLE BWA TCHB B, 8M why our uiea are ZjTZZlZl
BIGGEST MONEY-MAKERS. Write NOW! SAMPLES

BOULEVARD CRAVATS, a ff. gi.i St., Per*. MO. HKW TOEK

CONTROLS 2£KS

An effective treatment against dtseasa of blood.
Used for 60 years. Home Treatment. Hundreds
of Endorsements. Whatever the cause, however
far advanced, write for FREE Book.

UCnVPA Dept. 63

U- Kan.a. City, Mo.

Bny yonr Drag Sundries, Special-
ties, Supplier, Novelties, etc., direct
from manufacturer thrown our
Stall-Order Dept. All personal items
are mailed postpaid by ns in plain
sealed package. We have every-
tiling-. Send for FRluK, illustrated
i ii ail-order catalog.

THE N-R MFG. CO.

Dept. H-20 Box 35.1 Hamilton, Ontario

ART LESSONS ill

B~c-e Taieahd Artist trks Of IwwS ■££

< <;IrMUr. makes It M) to learn srt B I "Say

■ .■v!-.*ia«.l*ltM. 'COUBM.
H*. ta>U«», iHnMlln. t#Jwai. at., ndlkni COJWtt*

1 e«e-n* warCn* fwa-M&w. Ow* KS la- _■ -

on iltttntmtfon*. IK nwa •■( [Iranian p-pr-i SKA

sass^'ssar-.srr ■ a ^a.Bsar — aaae .

^■.:...i^,.^r : .'v :" -■ " ru r . 1 . 1 : ' m.,_. : _ .t r- .,_■. — '

eONtrtVKn'EEjil Poems.' melodies. Outstanding collaV
oration offer, Hibaeler, D-15S, 2157 No, Avers, Carcas«*

380

WEIRD TALES

after, a great hue and cry arises, a clamorous
howl of derision is sent up by the readers,
telling the writer to remember this is Amer-
ica and to speak United States. (I've had ex-
perience in the above matter after introduc-
ing German into a manuscript during high
schooldays.) So!!! Now for the benefit of
the readers who are ignorant of Francais,
either by choice or otherwise (or am 1 the
only one who does not know the language?),
is it too much to ask the writers to pen a
few words extra of translation? For in-
stance — 'Wie gehts — How goes it?* 'Taint
so much work now — is it? And if I see
much more of that French rubbish, I'm gon-
na hie me down to your editorial offices and
rub those writers' noses in a few German
verbs and tenses! And now for a placid
comment on the bizarre and unusual: I am
getting to like Clark Ashton Smith better 'n'
better — his stories are acquiring a strange-
ness new to his former tales; e. g. — Necro-
mancy in Naat. A new land, a new fate to
befall victims of the wizards, braving a simi-
larity to Zombie — but so utterly different —
more repellent. And the ending pleased me
— the hero didn't vanquish the villain, nor
did he escape his doom and save his fair
lady. Yesstr, Mr. Smith, you are pleasing
me mightily of late. The verse, Hagar, by
Edgar Daniel Kramer, wasn't half bad. He
completes in a few breathless lines a story
that is deeply imbedded within us all — fear
of dark forests — fear of lurking, nameless
unknown horrors, fear of natural phenomena
that assume the grotesqueness of fearsome
legendary spawns of other worlds. Ah me —
1 am so happy! Conan is grand, recalling
former tales of men and dragons— Siegfried
of the Nibelungenlied (now I s'pose some-
one wants to know what that means!) — St.
George and his dragon — countless others —
every nation has such a hero. I dunno as yet
where the Red Nails come in, but my! it's
exciting already; strange, possibly unex-
plored places. Goody — I'm just so-o-o hap-
py, I could gurgle I Robert E. Howard gave
the readers of WT one of the finest, most
lovable brutes of a hero anyone could want.
Conan is the embodiment of the kind of
man everyone admires: strength and nerve
to please the men; physique — wttnderbarf to
please the ladies. Enough rawness to be yet
a barbarian and still experience enough to
be better educated than the majority of those
he encounters. He has a mind strong enough

to throw off the spells of wizards. He is a
fighter, adventurer, explorer and lover — a
real he-man. Mr. Howard is indeed a clever
man! . . . Loot of the Vampire certainly
put a new angle on vampires. I was well-
satisfied with the whole story. ... I note
you stated my letter in the July issue was
entertaining. I am complimented and trust
that all my letters may be even more so. Auf
wiederschreiben."

The Unborn

John V. Baltadonis, of Philadelphia,
writes : ' 'Well — I wasn't disappointed in
the least bit; Loot of the Vampire certainly
had a swell ending. That was a peach of a
yarn. However, it didn't quite take the cake,
so to speak, Ronal Kayser's story, The Un-
born, nosing it out. The Unborn certainly
had a new idea. For that reason and because
it was well written, I give it first place in
the July issue. This story is certainly a great
step from The Albino Deaths. Clark Ash-
ton Smith's yarn, Necromancy in Naat, took
third place, with Hamilton's and Moore's
tales following. Virgil Finlay's art work is
without a doubt superb. I often find myself
wondering how he would be on the cover,
De Lay's illustration for Hamilton's yarn,
When the World Slept, is certainly a hum-
dinger. I'll close with an appeal for that
plucky, inimitable Frenchman, Jules de
Grandin."

Keep It Weird

Arel Rusl, of Mount Vernon, Illinois,
writes: "Here goes the first letter that I have
written to this department in ten years of
reading your most excellent magazine. I
think it's about rime one of your old fans
got into the swing of things by telling what
he thinks of old WT in general and the July
issue in particular. Vampires are my par-
ticular dish and I like short shorts; so two
of your fairly recent yarns stick in my mind,
namely, The Horror Undying and The Amu-
let of Hell. Both were swell and I think we
should see more from those authors. The
best tale in the July issue seemed to me to be
The Kelpie. For sheer horror and originality
it has few peers. The Unborn and When
tha World Slept tie for second place, bat all
the stories were up to standard, wkicfe is
tantamount to the highest praise. . , . Well,
I suppose this is enough for the fine tetter.
And are you surprized to note tfae lack of

WEIRD TALES

381

brick-bats? You see, Weird Tales suits me
just fine. No complaints, just keep up the
good work and, to repeat a psean as old as
my acquaintance with WT, Keep Weiri>
Tales weird."

Again and Again
Charles Donnelly, of Johnson Gry, Ten-
nessee, writes: "I've always enjoyed Weird
Tales a lot and I think I haveproved it by
my consistent reading of it. The tale that
I've enjoyed best lately was Child of the
Winds by that superb writer Edmond Ham-
ilton. It fascinated me so that I read it
again and again. Mr. Hamilton's style of
writing is one that keeps me fascinatea until
the end of the story. And that k some
praise, because there are so few writers that
can do that I think that this story calls for
a sequel because I don't believe Lora will be
happy until she is back on the plateau with
her friends. ... I sincerely thank Weird
Tales for so many enjoyable hours. It takes
one out of this humdrum world into a place
of dreams. The only fault I ever found with
it was when it just printed every other
month. I hope that won"t happen again, be-
cause a month is too long to wait for Weird
Tales, and two months is eons."

Then and Now

Joseph Allan Ryan, of Cambridge, Mary-
land, writes: "Do WT readers ever stop to
observe how far Weird Tales has traveled
since its inception? Let's take an early issue
of WT— the October 1925 one, for in-
stance — and compare it with the latest one.
First of all we have J. U. Giesy's humorous
pseudo-scientific tale, The Wicked Plea — a
highly illogical story of a flea that grew to
a gigantic size and went chasing big dogs
all over the country; it relied on silly names
and one solitary pun to give it humor (?).
Then there was Seabury Quinn's The Horror
on the Links, the first de Grandin story. Al-
though this tale showed Quinn's superiority
in the field of weird story writing, it was not
so interesting as are his present de Grandin
tales, for it gave a scientific explanation to
each phenomenon, whereas today we find
only indications of the occult in Quinn's
masterpieces. The Prophet's Grandchildren,
by E. Hoffmann Price, was, though interest-
ing, not weird, for it merely retold a legend
of the Moslems. . . . The Fading Ghost,
by Willis Knapp Jones, started as though it
was going to be « real WT short-story clas-

CLASSIFIED ADVERTISEMENTS

SMALL ADS WORTH WATCHING

ENJOY WILL ROGERS' humorously Interesting view-
points In — "American Dollars. " "European Nobility."
"Cowpunchln'." SI each. Three $2. Limited. Hum*
Francis Sales, Box 173, Ashland, Oregon.

Business Opportunities

FRANKLY — Would you give $1.00 for a chance m
make $45.00, and up, weekly? No canvassing. Par-
ticulars for stamp. Scnan Service, 13838 Mitchell.
Detroit, Michigan.

MAKE EAItNTNO EXTRA CASH YOUR HOBBV-

New Idean Literature 10c. Thornton, Box US4, Long

Beach. Calif.

START A BUSINESS OF f OCR OWN! Become a sub-
scription representative for "WEIRD TALES." No cap-
ital required. Liberal commissions. Monthly bonus.
Write for details. Circulation Manager, WEIRD TALES
Magazine, $40 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, DL

Chirography

HAVE YOUR HANDWRITING ANALYZED. 'Kiwn»
your talents, peculiarities, handicaps! Send page In mk,
addressed, stamped envelope. Pee — 50c A. McNeil).
Box 783, Wrentham, Massachusetts.

Horoscope
SPECIAL OFFER! Horoscope Reading. 35c. Stale
dat« of Birth. M. Caxrarinl, 213 E. 71st St, Chicago,

Keys

MASTER KEYS that open hundreds of lochs. Handy
in emergencies. 50c brings set postpaid. J. K. Ke-
nedy. R. No. 3, Shelby, N. C.

TOOTH-ACHE — "Golden Ace" will not fan you. G»:t

yours today. Postpaid 25c. The Goidea Lab.. 4831
Lake St., Chicago, 111.

Ml sceila neous

SUCCESSFUL BRAINS. The guide to a ftifl pocket-
book. New Ideas, Original plans. Money-making st-
erols and valuable Information. Write National Sup-
ply, Box 1761, Station D, Cleveland, Ohio.

Razor Blade* — Sharpening

MKN — Sharpen your own safety razor blades srith a.
Rex Hone. Puts a keen, sharp edge en all blade?
Hone 20c postpaid (no stamps). Whelsa Bros., 15£5
Garland, Detroit, Mtcb.

Songwriters

Receive Gigantic Mails, Magazines, Sample*

A Ghostly Voice from the Ether J

It was as if some phantom were ivhlsptfrttg
through the ether to the language of another
planet. Read

"THE MOON TERROR"

(In book farm>
FKIOK— aoe

382

WEIRD TALES

sic, but ended up with a surprize ending
which explained everything as a mistake
which couid never be incurred. Tom Free-
man's The Death Shower was only a cleverly
constructed detective story, not weird; while
A Mind in Shadow, by Tessida Swinges, was
a simple child's story, related in baby-talk,
which could not have been even remotely
connected with Weird Tales — it should
hare been rejected, instead, by Child Life
Magazine. The Weird Story Reprint, Wil-
heim Hauff*s The Severed Hand, had a
touch of weirdness to it, but was ruined by
a weak ending; moteover, the title bore lit-
tle relation to the story. There were other
stories by authors who were, no doubt,
prominent and popular at die time, but
most of whom have dropped into the back-
ground. The illustrations, both inside and
on the cover, were all done, very crudely, by
a sole illustrator, Andrew Brosnatch. Com-
pare his efforts with the present exquisite
work of Virgil Finlay and Mrs. Brundage,
with the detailed, clear -cur drawings of Har-
old De Lay, the shadowy, mysterious grease-
pencib'ags of Hugh Rankin. Notice, too, the
wide variety of artists — the early WTs had
but one. The July, 1936, issue was almost a
direct contrast to the early issue of 1925
which I reviewed. Clark Ashton Smith's
sdntillant gem — Robert E. Howard's tale
of the barbarian, Conan — Edmond Hamil-
ton's fascinating weird- scientific tale of the
near future — Thorp McClusky's different
vampire thriller — August W. Derleth's
narrative of spirit return, proof of his
never-failing mastery — the handsome
Manly Wade Wellman's short tale of
stark horror, nearly approaching the point
reached by Kuttner's The Graveyard Rats
— the beautiful inside illustrations and the
excellent cover — the usual array of inter-
esting letters in the Eyrie— all these round-
ed up aa issue which was as nearly perfect
as an issue can be, and which was yet
typical •£ the standard maintained in the
last fere years. And still some readers
yearn f«r the 'good old days'!"

Another de Grandin Tale

Robert A. Madle, of Philadelphia,
writes: "Necromancy in Naat was a good
story, beautifully illustrated by Virgil Fin-
lay. His fantastic drawings are in fitting
with the maga2ine — they are weird. With-
out a shadow of a doubt Virgil Finlay is

your best interior artist. De Lay, your re-
cent addition, is also good. Robert E.
Howard's latest Conan adventure takes
first place. I have yet to be displeased by
Howard, and I hope he never stops writ-
ing for Weird Tales. Second place goes to
that unusual yarn, The Unborn. This story
presents a decidedly weird plot excellently
written. It is a great improvement over
Ronal Kayser's previous contributions. The
other tales were very good, especially Lost
Paradise by C L. Moore. Moore never fails
to please me with those beautiful tales of
Northwest Smith. Do you realize that there
hasn't been a Jules de Grandin story in the
last six issues and next month's forecast
doesn't boast of one either? You had better
rectify die situation and secure one soon."
[Cheer up, Mr. Madle, for two new tales
of Jules de Grandin will appear soon, with
cover designs by Margaret Brundage. — The
Editor.]

Varied Comments

Paul N. Nicholaioff, of Chicago, writes:
"I find real treat when I read Seabury Quinn
and Carl Jacobi. The former's A Rival from
the Grave and the latter's Face in the Wind
were excellent. McClusky's Loot of the
Vampire is very entertaining. The House of
the Evil Eye I did not like so well. Its con-
clusion was mechanically constructed. It
went off at a fair start, but something else
finished the race. Ballad of the Wolf was an
excellent poem by Henry Kuttner. I hope
to see more of his poems in future issues."

Unique Among Magazines

Herberte Jordan, of Wellingborough,
England, writes: "I have been a deeply ap-
preciative reader of Weird Tales for many
years, and would like to express my sincere
admiration for the high literary quality of
the stories published. Year in and out this
quality is maintained, and the success of
weird Tales is undoubtedly due to this
fact. The brilliant writers regularly contrib-
uting to the magazine are past masters in the
art of inducing those delicious shudders
which run up the spine and set the scalp
tingling with suspense and horror. I would
also mention the work of the artists illus-
trating Weird Tales. The Brundage coven
are beautifully done, and the recent work bf
Virgil Finlay is superb. The Eyrie is a good
feature and should, as Louis C. Smith stated

WEIRD TALES

383

in a recent issue, be used solely for construc-
tive criticism, not silly haggling. Whatever
adverse criticism is made against Weird
Tales, it is indisputable that it has reached,
and is maintaining, a very high standard of
weird literature. Weird Tales stands alone.
It is indeed unique in every respect. From
the first page to the last, one is transported
into a world of eery fantasy where whisper-
ing voices hint unutterable horrors."

More Stories by Lovecraft

B. M. Reynolds, of North Adams, Massa-
chusetts, writes : "Congratulations on the
July Weird Tales, the best job you've
turned out in many a moon. That issue
came close to perfection. All of the stories
were fine, in fact, with one exception. Loot
of the Vampire was by far the most poorly
written, atrocious and terrible piece of work
that I have ever had the displeasure of read-
ing in your fine magazine. The plot was
weak, the characters unconvincing and the
sequence of events very 'spotty' in places. A
child of twelve could scarce find entertain-
ment in that one. The other tales, however,
were all of such a fine quality that it is hard
to pick the best ones. Lost Paradise, Necro-
mancy in Na.it and Red Nails are tales that
transport the reader out of the 'everyday*
and carry him over countless dream-worlds
and realms of enchantment. Tales of this
type are all too scarce these days. The Un-
born was a strong and appealing little story,
undoubtedly Kayser's best to date. When
the World Slept, by Hamilton, was thought-
provoking ana perhaps not too impossible in
these days of scientific progress. And speak-
ing of Hamilton, his Child of the Winds, in
May, was one of die finest tales you have
ever given us. The short-shorts were the best
in months, The Kelpie by Wellman and The
Snakeskin Cigar-Case being the best of these.
The latter was, decidedly, an 'off the trail'
story, which might have taken first place had
it been longer. At any rate, it was a damn
good yarn and if Bodo Wildberg has any
more as good, send them along. Conan
Doyle's reprint, The Ring of Thoth, was the
best tale of ancient Egyptian mummies that
I have ever had the pleasure of reading. By
the way, Mr. Editor, when, if ever, are we
going to have any more tales by Lovecraft ?
Apparently, Robert Bloch has been trying to
pinch-hit for Lovecraft for you, but he is an
easy out. I'm sure no one can fill Lovecraft's

NEXT MONTH

Witch-House

By Seabury Quinn

HERE is another tale about Jules de
Grandin, the fascinating occult-
ist, scientist and ghost-breaker, who has
endeared himself to many thousands
of readers. Courageous, vain, boastful,
mercurial, yet thoroughly lovable, he is
one of the most interesting characters
of modern fiction.

IN this story the little Frenchman
attacks a dangerous and baffling sit-
uation involving a beautiful American
girl in desperate peril of her life and
a menace to those whom she loves —
attacks it heroically, with all the cour-
age and resourcefulness at his com-
mand. This superb novelette, one of
the most intriguing of all the stories
about Jules de Grandin, will be pub-
lished complete

in the November issue «f

WEIRD TALES

on sale October 1st

To avoid missing your copy, clip and mall ibis
coupon today for SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION
OFFER, j^^m (You Save 26c) B^.,

WEIRD TALKS

840 N. Michigan Ave,

Chicago, Ui.

Enclosed find $1.00, tor which tend nte the next
five issues of WEIRD TALES, to begin wnb the
November Issue. (Special offer void unless remit-
tance Is accompanied by coupon.)

Name

City State

334

WEIRD TALES

shoes with most of us readers. We miss his
Elder Gods, and how I" (Two fine new stories
by H. P. Lovecraft, The Haunter of the
Dark and The Thin? on the Door-Step, are
scheduled for early publication. — The
Editor.}

Pointed Paragraphs

Donald A. Wollheim, of New York City,
writes: "Am always pleased to see Robert
Bloch's stones. That young man has cer-
tainly qualified himself for a permanent
place on your list of outstanding authors.
He carries on the Lovecraft tradition. And,
by the way, where is the grand master HPL
himself, these days?"

James P. Harrill, of Charlotte, North
Carolina, writes: "I still enjoy reading your
magazine as much as always and still want
you to continue the nudes on the front of the
magazine, although I am now a settled mar-
ried man. Also I do not think that it hurts
the prestige of your magazine to have an oc-
casional detective or science-fiction story; in
fact, I do not like the absolutely weird tales
that have awesome sliminess oozing from
the putrid bodies of something-or-other.
Let's not make the stories too nasty ; although
I have as good a stomach as any man's, I do
not like to read stories like that."

R. M.. Tomlinson, of Ventura, California,
writes: "In the June issue, I was much
pleased with the drawing signed by H. S.
DeLay. Don't know when I have seen such
real skill in this sort of magazine."

Robert Bloch, of Milwaukee, writes:
"Robert E. Howard's death is cjuite a shock
— and a severe blow to WT. Despite my
standing opinion on Conan, the fact always
remains that Howard was one of WT's fin-
est contributors, and his King Kull series
were among the most outstanding works you
ever printed."

Seabury Quinn writes from Brooklyn:
"The field of fantastic fiction has lost one
of its outstanding and recognized masters
in Robert E. Howard. His Solomon Kane
stories, his tales of Kull, and latterly his
Conan sagas, all of them were superb in
their own way. He was a quantity producer,
but always managed to keep his stuff fresh
and vigorous. There are few who can do
this."

Jack Snow, of Dayton, Ohio, writes; "I
have just finished reading the July Weird
Tales and have laid it aside with mingled
feelings. The story I liked best was Manly
Wade Wellman's The Kelpie. It was an out
and our weird tale, not an adventure or thrill
story masking behind a weird jargon."

Most Popular Story

Readers, what is your favorite story in this
issue? Write a letter, or fill out the coupon
on this page, and send it to the Eyrie, Weird
Tales. Your favorite stories in the July is-
sue, as shown by your votes and letters, were
the first part of the late Robert E. Howard's
story, Red Nails, and Clark Ashton Smith's
fantasy, Necromancy in Naat.

MY FAVORITE STORIES IN THE OCTOBER WEIRD TALES ARE:

Story Remarks

( i >

<»)'-

(1)

(2)

I do not like the following stories:
Why?

Ii will help us to know what kind of
stories you want in Weird Tales if you
will fill out this coupon and mail ir to
The Eyrie, Weird Tales, 840 N. Michigan
Ave, Qiicago, III,

Reader's name and address:

W. T,— 8

COMING NEXT MONTH

FROM the black woods beside the trail rose a shriek of blood-curdling laughter.
Slavering, mouthing sounds followed jt, so strange and garbled that at first I
did not recognize them as human words. Their unhuman intonations sent a
chill down my spine.

"Dead men!" the inhuman voice chanted. "Dead men with torn throats! There
will be dead men among the pines before dawn! Dead men! Fools, you are all
dead!"

Ashley and I both fired in the direction of the voice, and in the crashing rever-
berations of our shots the ghastly chant was drowned. But the weird laugh rang out
again, deeper in the woods, and then silence closed down like a black fog, in which
I heard the semi-hysterical gasping of the girl. She had released Ashley and was
clinging frantically to me. I could feel the quivering of her lithe body against mine.
Probably she had merely followed her feminine instinct to seek refuge with the
strongest; the light of the match had shown her that I was a bigger man than Ashley.

"Hurry, for God's sake!" Ashley's voice sounded strangled. "It can't be far to
the cabin. Hurry! You'll come with us, Mr. Garfield?"

"What was it?" the girl was panting. "Oh, what was it?"

"A madman, I think," I answered, tucking her trembling little hand under my
left arm. But at the back of my head was whispering the grisly realization that no
madman ever had a voice like that. It sounded — God!— it sounded like some bestial
creature speaking with human words, but not with a human tongue! . . .

You will not want to miss this grim novelette of stark horror — of the terrible
disfigurement inflicted upon Adam Grimm by the dark priests of Inner Mongolia, and
the frightful vengeance that pursued his enemy to the United States and tracked him
down in the Louisiana woods. It will be published complete in the November issue
of Weird Tales: -

Black Hound of Death

By Robert E. Howard

Also

WITCH-HOUSE THE MAN IN BLACK

By Seabury Quinn By Paul Ernst

A fascinating and gripping tale of the blight that A vivid weird tale about a masquerade ball, and a

fell upon a lovely and beautiful American girl- — grim figure clad in formal black, who mingled

a tale of Jules de Grandin, ghost-breaker, occult- with the dancers but did not dance.
ist, and master of the supernatural.

THE DARK DEMON ™ E CRAWLING HORROR

By Robert Block b " Thorp McClusky

The strange tale of a man who communed too A Z" m , °£ of , '•* .weird terror that wrought

closely with things from beyond space— a shud- ^f '» d f* anii ? a " ,c ?! Brataker Farm — W ,he

dery tale of stark horror. author of Loot of the Vampire.

MIDAS MICE

By Bassett Morgan By Robert Barbour Johnson

A shuddery graveyard tale, through which blows What ghastly fate pursued the dweller in that

an icy breach of horror, like a chill wind from vermin-infested old mansion in Louisiana? — the

the tomb. story of a weird doom.

November WEIRD TALES Out October 1

While They Last !

At

Special
Close-out Price

The M° on i
Terrot

A.6- Birc

50c

THE MOON TERROR, by A. G.
Birch, is a stupendous weird-scientific
novel of Chinese intrigue to gain control of
the world.

ALSO-OTHER STORIES

In addition to the full length novel, this
book also contains three shorter stories by
well-known authors of thrilling weird-
scientific fiction:

OOZE, by Anthony M. Rud, tells of a
biologist who removed the growth limita-
tions from an amoeba, and the amazing
catastrophe that ensued.

PENELOPE, by Vincent Starrett, is a
fascinating tale of the star Penelope, and
ntastic thing (liar happened when the
in perihelion.

AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOURTH

DIMENSION, by Famsworth Wright, is
an uproarious skit on the four-dime-; i
theories of the madien inter-

planetary stories in general.

LIMITED SUPPLY

Make sure of getting your copy now bed
close-out supply is exhausted. Si
today for this book at the spen
of only 50c.

NOT! : This book for sale from the pu
only. It cannot be purchased ill

i : 50c for clotb-boond

I MOON TERROR as per your special

| City